


The Boy with the Dragon Tattoo

by Evilpixie



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternative Universe - Porn Stars, BDSM, Dom/sub, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Masochism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-03-09 03:48:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 41,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3235163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evilpixie/pseuds/Evilpixie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim takes a job stripping at the bottom level of Wayne Manor - BDSM playhouse - and learns what is takes to be a porn star.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There is a lot which I haven't explicitly tagged in this story. Please note the tags above and read with caution.

Wayne Manor was the biggest kinky strip club, BDSM show house, and working alternative pornography studio in the USA. It played host to millionaires looking to forget their troubles, was a permanent address for the best porn stars in the business, and on some levels even took in paying kinksters of all types wanting to express themselves in its unique environment.

 

The first time Tim saw the old building he’d thought he was in the wrong place. It didn’t look like the booming dark heart of the elite sex industry. It looked like a perfectly recreated piece of gothic architecture; jagged spires, arched entrances, and a long gravel driveway that crunched under his feet as he walked up it. The garden hedges were square and well-kept, a massive fountain spurted water from the puffed cheeks of a marble cherub, and a small horde of massive bats chatted and shrieked from a nearby tree. It wasn’t until he got closer did he notice most of the hundreds of windows were discreetly covered with what looked like red velvet and there were two black clad doormen big enough to be bouncers standing to attention in the shadows by the entrance.

 

“Hello.”

 

No response.

 

“I’m eh… I’m just going to… if it’s okay…” He gathered himself and mounted the steps until he was face to face with the looming front door. With a nervous smile at the men he lifted his fist ready to knock. The door opened before he got a chance and a stately butler stepped out to meet him.

 

“Good day, sir.”

 

“Good… oh!” Tim rubbed his hands on his shirt and thrust his freshly dried right palm forward. “I’m Tim. I was told to… invited! I was _invited_ to come here and see Mr…”

 

A quirk of lip. “Indeed. I was told to expect you. My name is Alfred Pennyworth and you, Master Timothy, are early. To my time your appointment isn’t for another half hour. Mr Wayne isn’t quite ready for you yet.”

 

Shyly. “I thought it best to…”

 

“I have been instructed to inform you employees use the servant’s entrance on the west wing. Just follow the path to the left of the building. The man there will let you in.”

 

“Okay…” he watched the butler – Alfred – disappear and obediently edged back down the stairs and started walking around the massive manor. Soon enough he stumbled upon a thin gravel path invisible from the main driveway and followed it until he found a small door with a single man standing to attention outside it. In some distant trees he could just make out what looked like a worker’s car park.

 

“Hi I’m…”

 

“Yeah kid,” the bouncer said around a slowly smouldering cigarette. “The boss told me about you. The dragon kid, right? In you go.”

 

He forced a smile, “that’s me,” and pushed through the small but still heavy door. The room beyond wasn’t the glamorous Wayne Manor he had seen from the XXX website. It looked like something ripped from a two and a half star hotel. The simple meeting room was stocked with a mini fridge, a clustered collection of seats, and some lockers lining the far wall. Well lit, a little dusty, and certainly not a sex dungeon. The wallpaper was peeling in one place and a tattered pair of red and black platform high heels had been abandoned under one of the seats.

 

He stood there for what felt like an age but what as probably only a few minutes before the door burst open and a woman in a slutty nurse costume with blonde hair bundled into pigtails stormed in. A red head in green fishnets and nothing else followed.

 

“Mr J is my client! _Mine!_ ”

 

“Relax, Harl. Anyone would think you actually cared for the disgusting scum bag.”

 

“Disgusting? You’re just saying that because you want to dance for him. Ain’t that right, Red? Ain’t it!”

 

“Business is business.” The red head said dispassionately. “Get over it. We’ve got a lesbian peep show tonight and I don’t want you biting my…” she noticed him. “Oh, you’re the new kid?”

 

“I hope,” he said earnestly.

 

“Hey,” the blonde narrowed her eyes at him. “I thought they said the new guy was scary. You know, tattooed and everything. What do you…?”

 

The door opened, interrupting the stripper with a bang as it thudded against the wall, and a man stepped in. He took up a frightening amount of the doorway but didn’t move like someone would expect from a big person. Every step was precise, planned, and powerful. Sleek dark hair and stark silver eyes.

 

“Mr Wayne,” Tim recognised him immediately. “Hi I’m…”

 

“Walk with me,” the man interrupted him and spun around to disappear back out into the darkness of the house.

 

Tim scampered after him, abandoning the company of the two women, and hurried at his heel as they finally entered a part of the house he recognised. Red and black walls, curtains sectioning off isolated alcoves, and looming paintings of explicit BDSM decorating the walls. It was day and most of the entertainment areas were closed and being cleaned by straight faced personal under Alfred’s eagle eyed supervision. A few areas still played host to some simple strip teases with a scattering of clientele. It looked shockingly like a typical strip joint in downtown Gotham. Tim tried to hide his disappointment. He’d bought the fantasy that was Wayne Manor; the ultimate kinky playpen as depicted on the Wayne Manor: BDSM Playhouse porn website.

 

Almost ten dollars a month subscription and totally worth it.

 

“You don’t like it?” The man leading him observed.

 

He looked up at Mr Wayne in shock. “I… It’s nice but…”

 

“It’s daytime,” he growled. “And it’s the bottom level. The next…”

 

“The bottom level is for stripping and public parties, the second floor is for private shows and performances and where you film solos, the third floor is living quarters, and the penthouse is where you shoot the pornography.” He swallowed at the man’s strange look. “I, uh, subscribe online.”

 

“The stable and kennels are outside,” Wayne added. “And the dungeon is in the cave which is a working multicam studio that airs live online.”

 

“Yes. I know that too.”

 

“Impressive.” He fixed him with a curious glare. “I need a male stripper for weekends and Wednesdays. One of my people said they saw you in _Boys Gone Wild_ down in the city. Said you were good.”

 

Tim couldn’t help but feel his cheeks prickle with colour. “Really?” He started stripping to pay his way through university and found, once he had finished his degree, he was making more money and having more fun on the pole than he ever would in an office. _Boys Gone Wild_ was a tacky joint but he had a humble fan base and could take off his thong and touch his toes for a Benjamin Franklin or two. But he wasn’t a prostitute. No one ever touched him. Those were the rules of the club and, unknown to everyone he worked with, no one had ever touched him that way in his private life either.

 

He was probably the first virgin stripper this city had ever seen but he loved it. There was something empowering in knowing he didn’t need explicit expertise to bewitch and enamour paying customers.

 

“Yes,” Wayne answered. “They call you the boy with the dragon tattoo. Cute. What’s your name?”

 

“Timoth—”

 

“Your stage name,” he interrupted him.

 

“I… everyone just calls me Timmy.”

 

Wayne sighed. “Foolish. We’ll call you Timmy Drake then, after the tattoo. If you can impress me.”

 

Tim felt all the colour he had collected in his cheeks vanish in an instant. “Impress you?”

 

“I’m not going to hire you without an interview,” Wayne said as he entered an empty area. There were a collection of round red clothed tables decked with delicate crystal glasses, candles, and wine bottles. Some of the tables closer to the stage had large leather collars attached to leeches that were fastened onto the central table leg bolted to the ground. The stage itself was simple, square, and equipped with an ungarnished pole.

 

Oh. “I’m not in my stripping clothes or…” Tim began.

 

“Relax,” Wayne said as he seated himself in a front row seat. “It’s a bottom floor job. Not even full time. I just need to make sure you have some kind of skill.” Music started playing. Slow. Sax.

 

Tim opened his mouth to protest, closed it, and carefully climbed up onto the stage; keenly aware that he was wearing ordinary unsexy underwear and pants that wouldn’t rip off. Wayne watched him, phone in hand, looking almost bored already.

 

Okay. _Okay_. He could do this. He _could_. He’d done it hundreds of times before. Thousands. And even if Wayne didn’t like him it was no big deal. He could just go back to his old job and old clients. Yeah. This was no big deal. He could go back. Go back and give up his chance to work and _the_ Wayne Manor. Oh God. Oh…

 

As the sax mounted Tim stepped forward, rolled into a slow cartwheel, and folded his legs around the pole. Snapped onto it with a practised grace. It was a sudden start, bold, and more an exhibition of skill and strength than anything sexual. But, most importantly it made it impossible for him to meet Wayne’s eyes. Made it impossible – in theory – to detect the man’s boredom or distain and get nervous.

 

He spun around without touching the ground, pole behind his knees, and rolled his shirt up over his shoulders. Tossed it out to an imaginary audience as if it were a pink feather boa he had run through his thong. With the next roll of music he grabbed hold of the pole and turned himself upside down. Held himself there. Showed his strength as he languidly opened his legs and slid back down onto the stage.

 

He couldn’t take off his pants or his shoes without breaking the beat so he resolved to arch, roll his hips, and throw back his head as if he were absorbed in the music and not deliberately performing move after move. Showing off his muscle, the shape of his arse, and – most importantly – the tail of his dragon tattoo snaking from his lower abdominals down his left hip and disappearing below the hem of his jeans. When the music swelled toward crescendo he popped open his fly and realised with a lurch he couldn’t remove any more clothing and keep to the beat. He was done. But the music was just about to die and he needed a finishing move. With a step he hoped looked confident rather than desperate, he moved from the stage to the closest table and dropped to his knees.

 

The music stopped. He was on the table before Wayne, spine curved in erotic display.

 

The man was watching him with a curious interest. “You dance like you have a routine. Moves.”

 

He blushed. “Yeah…?” Began to reluctantly fold himself out of his pose.

 

“Most strippers improvise.”

 

“I can do that too.”

 

Wayne grunted and reached out to touch the protruding edge of the dragon tattoo on his hip. Tim slapped him away without thinking. “No touching.” Realised what a mistake that probably was a moment later. This was _Mr Wayne_. Head of almost all big time legitimate – and rumoured some illegitimate – sex trade on the East Coast. Pissing him off was not a good idea especially if he wanted to work here. Which he did. Badly.

 

But Wayne wasn’t frowning. He was nodding. “Good.”

 

“Good?” It had been a test, Tim realised. And he had passed.

 

“Show me the tattoo.”

 

He numbly obeyed; pulled down his pants further and revealed the snaking black dragon dancing from his abdominals, over his left hip, and a short way down his inner thigh. It was simple, dark, and his twenty first birthday present to himself. Wayne seemed to approve.

 

“Good. I’ll have Alfred bring you the contract. You have unrestricted access to the first floor but do not attempt to go higher, into the dungeon, or interfere with the puppies or ponies. We do not pay for dances but you should more than make enough money in tips and private dances. Our clientele is extremely wealthy. You are not a prostitute by this contract so any sex work you do is your own business done in your own time and _off premises_.”

 

“But…” Tim was frowning and pulling his fly closed. “Do you take a cut of my tips?”

 

“No.”

 

“How do you make money?”

 

Wayne’s lips twitched. “You’re smart. Most wouldn’t think of that.”

 

“Tha—”

 

“On this floor we make our money of the wine, the food, and the entry fees. You are decoration. You keep people here and keep them hot so they pay for more alcohol and the chance to go up a level.”

 

His heart was pounding as he wondered if it were safe to climb off the table and celebrate his newfound employment. By the sounds of it he had managed to wedge open one door only to find a million more slammed closed in his face. He was a star at _Boys Gone Wild_ but here he was just a bottom level stripper. Decoration.

 

“There are also rules here that you might not be used to,” the businessman went on ruthlessly. “Read your contract. Follow them. We shouldn’t have a problem. I’ll be looking for you tonight.”

 

A surge of dread. “Tonight?”

 

“Yes.” The man’s look was flat. Unforgiving. “It’s Wednesday.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was originally written to be submitted as a gift to [BatBoyBondage](http://batboybondage.tumblr.com/) on tumblr but it spiraled WAY out of hand and now, at just over forty thousand words, it too large to be submitted conventionally so am cutting it into chapters and popping it onto here as it is edited.
> 
> I'm aware it's a pretty far out depiction of BDSM, porn, and everything else but I had a lot of fun writing it. I hope you enjoy!


	2. Chapter 2

Tim sat behind an old fashioned make up table, mirror rimmed with light bulbs, and turned his head first one way and then another. After he’d labourishly inked his signature onto the bottom of his new contract Leslie Tompkins – the woman hired for quality checks on makeup and costume – had clucked her tongue at his working wear and sat him down to dust his cheeks and shoulders in a liberal amount of red and silver glitter. She’d changed his pants out for leather ones with snaps on the seams, given him a simple easy to rip shirt, and used a confusing array of powders to sharpen his cheekbones, bring out his eyes, and change the shape of his lips.

 

“Better,” she declared as he gazed in wonder at the strange creature in the mirror. He looked sexy to a manufactured degree – like a porn star or a sex doll – but still had the tell-tale assortment of features that made him unique. Recognisable.

 

“Wow,” he muttered, afraid to touch or move his face too much least he destroy all her work. “I look… _wow_.”

 

“Are you ready for your first night?” She asked as she quickly messed up his hair; slightly dishevelled but not too much to suggest a parasite infestation.

 

“I guess…” A long pause. “But, I was wondering,” Tim said slowly. “How do you get to, eh, go up a level?”

 

The woman’s eyes sparkled with dark amusement. “What do you want to do? Shows or porn?”

 

“I… eh…”

 

“We have a universe here,” she told him. “A carefully constructed façade.”

 

Harley called out from a nearby table. “It’s like professional wrestling without clothes!”

 

To his shock Leslie seemed to agree with this assessment and nodded gravely. “If you want to gain access to that universe – _be_ someone instead of just decoration – I suggest you develop a character, perhaps work out a story or an angle with someone on the upper levels, and gather interested clientele.”

 

“A character?”

 

“Big Dick Grayson didn’t become our star performer by being himself.” She informed him. “He knows how to sell himself. His _character_. He can put on a show.”

 

“Plus he’s _endowed_ and _flexible_ ,” Harley chimed in. “When he was just a stripper down on the bottom floor he used to suck his own cock in private dances. I didn’t believe it until he did it for the cameras for his Solo Sunday segment.”

 

“And that single Solo Sunday segment made Bruce enough money that Big Dick Grayson was catapulted up to the top floor full time.” Leslie said.

 

“And trains the submissives in the dungeon,” Tim added.

 

A pause. “You subscribe to the website,” Leslie concluded. “So you know the story.”

 

“Story?”

 

“Jeez, Newbie, aren’t you listening? He doesn’t _really_ do that,” Harley called out. “He just puts on shows doing that sometimes and always introduces the new subs like he knows them. That’s what we’re talking about. You got to pretend to live the real kinky life in here to sell your shows, or videos, or private lap dances. Whatever. Look at me. In real life I’m totally romantic. One guy kinda gal. I went to med school too. But in here I’m Harley Quinn! Now, I don’t actually like girls but Harley Quinn has a crush on Ivy and Catwoman. Plus she’s got that outrageous Brooklyn accent and totally dropped out of high school. That’s the _story_ and that’s what we sell.” A purposeful nod. “Plus, we get nookie from each other for doing it. Win win!”

 

“Win win,” Leslie agreed with a small, private, smile.

 

A knock on the door. A man Tim didn’t recognise poked his head in. “We need another male dancer on stage two. Is dragon boy ready to go?”

 

“Y-yeah,” he stuttered. God, why did he stutter? He’d impressed Wayne. He’d done this thousands of times before. “I’m ready…”

 

“From what I hear you’ll be fine,” Leslie promised.

 

“Even without a character?”

 

“Well,” she pursed her lips. “Now would be the perfect time to debut a character. Who do you want Timmy Drake to be?”

 

“I… um…” His mind flashed to Big Dick Grayson and his short cut path up the chain of hierarchy. From an over the top stripper to a cheeky switch – able to be both a compelling dominant and eager submissive – with enough views on his videos to earn him permanent residency on the third floor of the manor. His page was one of the most popular on the XXX website, his face sold his own brand of lube, and Tim had followed his career as far as the stage name Big Dick Grayson would go. “Could I be s—” – _omething like Big Dick Grayson?_

 

The man at the doorway thumbed his palm on the wall. “Come on, we need a dancer! Now! All you have to do is shake your damn arse.”

 

“Submissive?” Leslie said in surprise; misinterpreting his interrupted sentence. “I wouldn’t have thought it of a man with a dragon on his hip. Now I wish I hadn’t done so much red. But, here, I have a red collar.” She snapped the polished leather closed around his neck. “That’ll sell the idea. Good luck.”

 

He was catapulted out of the dressing room before he got a chance to protest. Then he was peeking through the thin lace curtain into Wayne Manor at night. It was full. _Very_ full. More people – men and woman – crowded around the stage eating dinner and sipping drinks than would show up to _Boys Gone Wild_ in a week. From their clothing they were also rich. Very rich. And some looked exotic. He saw an Indian couple indulging in a fruit platter held up by a near naked woman with chains hanging off her hips, a Middle Eastern man decorated in green silks and silver rings being poured a drink by a boy in a thong, and what looked like the Gotham City Mayor lying large and leashed in a dog costume at the foot of a table filled with beautiful women.

 

The music swelled.

 

Slow, seductive, but also threatening to pick up the tempo into something fiery and savagely erotic. He let that music move him as he slunk onto the stage; slow, wanton, but with a touch of predatory power in the motion. Fierce but needy. That was who he would be, he decided impulsively. A submissive styled after the first song he stripped to.

 

By the time the music dipped he was in nothing but his leather thong, boots, and Leslie’s collar.

 

Something clattered onto the stage between his feet. He put his hand above his head and slid down the pole; his legs parting into an easy spread eagle, and maintaining the dance as he picked up the item. He had expected cash bundled in a paperclip. Instead he found a gold ring embedded with a stone. Red. _A ruby?_ No. No way _anyone_ would throw a ruby onto a stripper’s stage no matter the venue. It had to be fake. Glass. Still the ring could be worth something.

 

He cocked an amused smile out to the crowd and quickly found the gaze of his benefactor. The Middle Eastern man in silk.

 

He flashed his teeth in a hungry smile and slipped the ring onto his thumb. Before his dance was up a woman stepped forward and he bend backwards so she could slip cash under his collar, another man put some money in his boot, and a third snapped it into the side of his thong. They were paying up fast, he thought with pleasure, but he still hoped they were being generous as well. Wayne said the company didn’t pay per dance so the only money he got was what they gave him. It seemed like a brutal deal but, at the same time, _all_ the money he got was his. If this crowd really was as drunk, horny, and rich as promised then he should be better off here three nights a week than five nights at _Boys Gone Wild._

 

Once the music ended he waltzed backstage, lost the flamboyance to his stride the second the curtain dropped, and hurried back into the light of his makeup desk. He found a hundred in his boot, two in his thong, and three in his collar. _Six hundred dollars!_ Just for a public strip tease. That was more than he had ever made in one night.

 

_I think I’m going to like it here._

 

He gathered the money up and stashed it in his locker. Once he was sure it was safe he checked his makeup and threw on a pair of leather pants before venturing back out into the main body of the manor. As per his contract and the most ordinary of Wayne’s _rules you might not be used to_ he was expected to spend at least a few hours ‘socialising’ with the guests. He understood the business logic in that. Nothing makes someone want to stay at a venue then someone sexy flirting with them. _Especially_ if that someone sexy is on staff. There was an erotic air of drunken delusional fantasy in the idea that an ordinary patron might have been able to attract a performer off the stage. If he was lucky he could win some private lap dances in this time. Or perhaps – thanks to Wayne’s rules – something else to fatten his wallet.

 

He walked out of the change room, paused to look at the female stripper who had taken his place, and glanced up to see Ivy and Harley gaining admittance to the second floor with a couple of well-dressed and very drunk men. _One day_ , he told himself longingly and wove through the crowd toward the woman who had donated him the largest sum of money. He wasn’t personally attracted to women but, as Leslie and Harley had said, he was selling a character and – if this woman was buying – his character was interested. On his way he saw a dancer accept fifty dollars to allow a man to lick her feet and another take payment to slot a shot of vodka between her cleavage.

 

Before he reached his target the Middle Eastern man stepped into his path holding a couple hundred dollars and a hungry look in his eye. _Eight hundred in one night!_ Tim smiled, took the money, and led the way into a private booth.

 

“You’re still wearing my ring?”

 

“Yes,” Tim purred as he drew the curtains and started dancing. “I like it.” He felt safer here. There was no danger of Wayne watching and this was a client he already knew he satisfied. He let his pants rip off to return him to the state he was on stage and rolled his hips in time to the muted music.

 

“I don’t think I’ve seen you before,” the man’s eyes were on his tattoo. “My name is Ra’s al Ghul.”

 

“I’m Timmy Drake,” Tim relied. “I’m new.” Turned to bend over and slap his own arse.

 

“Mm,” the man – Ra’s – tilted his head to inspect him. “I enjoy new things.”

 

“I enjoy older things,” Tim promised breathlessly, eyeing the other man over his shoulder with something he hoped looked like lust. “ _Rich_ things.” Licked the ring still sitting on his thumb.

 

A low laugh. “Truly a dragon. But you are collared? Interesting.”

 

Teasingly. “There isn’t any chain on this collar.” Tim hooked his fingers into his thong and brought it down. He kept himself fit and bare of body hair. Hoped the sight he showed now was worth the man’s money. Judging by the noise Ra’s made, it was.

 

Ten minutes later he was wriggling his naked arse above Ra’s lap and starting to shine with more than just glitter. Despite the dark hunger in his eyes and the tenting in his pants Ra’s didn’t attempt to touch him or propose they leave premises for a taste at the currently still illegal side of the sex industry.

 

As he finished he pulled up his thong and snapped his pants back into place along the open-able seam. Ra’s have him a final look and pulled some more money from his pocket.

 

“Go to the bar, buy the most expensive bottle of champagne; one glass, and come back here.”

 

“Most expensive?” Tim echoed with a wicked smile and plucked the money out of the man’s hand. “It would be my _pleasure_.”


	3. Chapter 3

The grisly grey man behind the counter at the pawn shop finished analysing the ring and put it gently down onto the bench top between them.

 

“I’ll give you eleven hundred.”

 

Tim’s eyebrows shot up. _Eleven hundred?!_ Ra’s gave him a ring worth _eleven hundred?!_ He tried to calculate that into the private dance and champagne pouring and immediately knew he hadn’t given the man enough. He should have been fawning over him. Infatuated. Instead he’d been playful, talkative, and greedy; took more and more money for simple privileges like sitting at his feet or smiling at him during his second dance. Yet, for some reason, the man hadn’t been repulsed or angry. He’d seemed amused. _Interested_.

 

“What do you say, kid?”

 

What could he say? He thought he would be lucky to get a hundred for it. Very lucky. Pawn shops weren’t known for being generous and they usually started the bidding low. Which meant… “Two thousand?” He squeaked. It was a hopeless stab in the dark. An in the moment surge of madness.

 

And it worked.

 

“Done.” The man picked up the ring and quickly dropped a pile of cash on the table.

 

Tim knew he had been ripped off. The speed of the man’s acceptance could mean nothing else. But, as he held the two thousand dollars in bills of fifty, he couldn’t do anything but smile.


	4. Chapter 4

The weekend was better. Tim watched as the entire bottom floor of the sprawling ancient house came alive with sex, scandal, and stripping; everything from a tame burlesque to a traditional can-can – without underwear – coloured with small erotic displays of classic BDSM. He saw a twelve horse carriage pulled by women in horse-tailed corsets, bridles, and hoof-boots make a loop around the house; a stripper run out onto stage in a full gimp regalia; and one woman walk in with her husband on a chain. Patrons arrived, threw money, and flowed like the tide beyond his reach; heading up stairs for the famous performers and the more explicit shows. Still, Tim found enough to awaken a fire inside him. Driven on by the wild wonderful atmosphere he danced both on stage and privately like he never had before.

 

“Tommy Dragon?”

 

“Timmy Drake,” he corrected her. “Remember it.”

 

The woman’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s cocky talk for a man in a collar.”

 

He fingered the band of leather and reached down to peel off the silky shirt below it. “Why? Are you planning on clipping something on this collar?” He was in a private dance with nine women all armed with strong British accents. From what he could gather this was a long distance bachelorette party that would be flying by private jet back across the Atlantic in time for the wedding tomorrow.

 

The bride laughed. “I just might, pretty boy. What would you say to that?”

 

“Mm,” he purred and flexed himself over her. Roll hips. Purse lips. Reel her in. “It’d cost you, _mistress_.”

 

A chorus of laughter and barely concealed moans of delight.

 

His smile grew wider. He was having fun. More fun than he had ever had on the job. And he was making more money than he had ever made in his entire life.

 

When the group lap dance was over he quickly pulled his clothes back on and apologised to the pouting women; telling them he was expected back on stage. The bride leapt up at that and waved a crisp looking handful of hundreds under his nose. Saw it catch his eye. “I’ll give this to you, dragon boy, _if_ you come out onto stage dressed like a woman.”

 

“Tammy Drake!” One of them yelled drunkenly and clapped her hands together.

 

He pretended to consider it. A slow frown and tongue tracing along the edge of his lip. Just as her greedy grin began to fade he stole a strawberry from their fruit platter, tipped it in cream, and licked it. “This is how you would chain me, _mistress_?” An almost sarcastic lilt to the word. “With lace and ribbon?”

 

Her smile grew wider, cheeks redder, and nipples pebbled beneath the thin black velvet of the dress. “It is.” When he reached for the money she waved it away. _“After.”_

 

The second he was out of sight he bolted into the locker room and stashed his winnings for the night in the small money safe on the top shelf. He didn’t bother counting the crumbled notes. He didn’t have time. He could already hear the dance before him ending with a blare of music and vocal chorus of cheers. He ran into the dressing room, ripped off his clothes, and with a flicker of doubt raided Harley’s closet. He would thank her – and no doubt pay her – later. But for now he needed to keep the clients happy.

 

Tim found a pair of frilly red knickers, fishnet stockings, and black platform heels. Over that he wriggled into a short starched skirt, put on a lacy red bra, and covered it with an easy-rip-off black corset. At least he hoped it was easy-rip-off. He didn’t want to get tangled with it on stage and Harley would murder him if he broke it. Still; worth the risk. He had just enough time to wrestle into some shoulder length black gloves, pucker up for some lipstick, and put a scarlet bow over the buckle in his lucky collar.

 

It was quick, haphazard, and didn’t quite fit him.

 

Still his appearance, once he wobbled out to the pole, was met with thunderous applause from the foreign wedding party grouped tight around the stage. It was harder to move in heels than he’d expected so he spent most of his performance as ‘Tammy Drake’ on the pole. That was okay. He liked the pole. He was good at the pole. He could do things on the pole he didn’t see anyone else even attempt. On the pole he satisfied the women and won his healthy handful of money despite only managing to take off the corset and the skirt.

 

Harley was less impressed as he shuffled back into the change room still in her knickers and took almost half his winnings as payment. It didn’t matter. When he saw the bachelorette party out later that night after they had taken a trip upstairs the bride kissed him on each cheek.

 

“You were my favourite, dragon boy. My _favourite_. Even better than Dickie Bird.”

 

His heart skipped a beat. Dickie Bird? _Dick Grayson_. These women had been upstairs, to the very top level or down to the cave, and seen Big Dick Grayson perform. And they liked Tim’s simple stripping lap dance and drag show better. It seemed hard to believe. Impossible. But he clung to it like a child snatching hold of a good dream before he woke. Not because he truly believed he had – could _ever_ – outshine Big Dick Grayson but because it was a small reminder that he was working in the same building as the man. Doing the same job. And maybe, _just maybe_ , he one day might be able to work with him.


	5. Chapter 5

Everything changed on Sunday. It was the end of his first week working in the manor and he expected it to be as simply successful as his first two days. He walked from the car park up to the employee’s entrance buzzing with excitement, put on his collar before any other item of clothing, and doused himself with a liberal amount of red glitter. Everything was looking good. As was he.

 

Then Miss Brown arrived.

 

Miss Brown – real name Stephanie – had been working the bottom floor for three months, somehow managed to pull off the virgin stripper look, and could get the crowd going to a terrifying degree just by popping off a lacy purple bra. Rumour had it she was being taken down into the dungeon tonight and all her dances were filled with eager anticipation. Despite Tim’s best efforts he could only get a small collection of twenties on stage and didn’t manage a lap dance. All eyes were on the pretty obedient blonde submissive that would bend over double in a virginal white G-string as she poured drinks. He supposed it was fair. She was good. She had to be. Being taken straight down into the dungeon was a huge vote of confidence from Wayne. He was placing his named stars – maybe even Catwoman or Dick Grayson – straight into a show with an untried, untested, newbie. No solos or simple porn videos to test her with the online audience. Just this. A big debut for an up and coming star.

 

Tim had to admit it; he was jealous.

 

Perhaps it had been as mistake selling himself as a sub when there was such a new and popular one already on the cards. One that was everyone’s best friend behind scenes and unwaveringly dedicated to her character when on the floor. He watched from the sidelines as she knelt at patron’s feet for free, accepted money with a shy ‘thank you, sir’, and allowed people to tickle her with feather dusters in private shows.

 

On the stroke of midnight three people in full body latex arrived and trussed up the blonde in velvet rope. Leading the party was an Asian woman wielding a whip and the authoritative air of an accomplished dominatrix. Miss Brown called her Mistress Kane before she was hauled downstairs to eager applause. The majority of the crowd that night was black card elite members who had paid in advance to watch the performance and once they were gone the room was nigh on empty.

 

Tim clung to the hope that the remaining crowd was more interested in men and spun around the pole despite the near empty seats. If nothing else he managed to keep a decent enough crowd to sell a couple more bottles of wine and get enough cash to go toward his rent. That, he reminded himself, was a typical night at _Boys Gone Wild._ He didn’t have the right to be disappointed. He’d made more money this week than he ever had before and had more fun doing it.

 

Even if it was a fraction of what Miss Brown no doubt made.

 

“You did well this week.”

 

He looked up and felt a nervous shiver rocket through him as he saw Wayne leaning against his locker. “T-thank you.”

“Especially tonight.”

 

He rolled his shoulders in an awkward shrug. “I did better the last two nights.”

 

“Yes,” Wayne agreed easily. “But you danced just as well tonight as the last two even when you didn’t have the crowd.” His gaze was intense, ice cold. “No one else did that.”

 

Again. “Thank you, Mr Wayne.”

 

“Call me Bruce.”

 

“Thank you, Bruce.”

 

It was embarrassingly stiff and formal. Like he was a child struggling to speak to an adult and not an employee conversing about business with an employer. But, despite himself, he supposed he was used to it. He never thought himself naturally charming or charismatic. He could put on a show for the crowd but, here, with all his clothes on and none of the masks he felt defenceless; naked. It was worse with Bruce. There was something about the businessman that did that; Wayne unwittingly robbed him of any wit or confidence that remained once Tim abandoned his flamboyant on stage persona. Perhaps it was the icy stare, the stern crisp suit, or his uncanny ability to seem to appear out of nowhere and talk like he knew _everything_ that went on in his house. Or perhaps it was that odd dark interest in his eye. Like he was a window shopper eyeing and evaluating a prime cut of meat. Or, perhaps more terrifying, a rogue sheepdog stalking a hapless lamb. _How much can I get out of you? How_ worth it _would you be to break the rules for? How much value could I find in you?_

 

“Wednesday night,” Wayne – Bruce – muttered. “You caught the attention of a man. An old friend of mine.”

 

“Ra’s?” Tim blurted without thinking.

 

Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “Yes. Ra’s. I gather from him you are selling yourself as a bratty sub.”

 

Tim frowned and looked down. “I guess… but, you know, I could try to be a dominant or more like Miss Brown. She seems really popular. I was just given the collar and then I went with more what I’m used to. Something more…” he fished for a word. “Sexy but snarky? I don’t know. I mean, I always pretend I’m someone a bit different on stage. A bit wilder.”

 

“Don’t try to be like Brown.”

 

He opened his mouth to say something and stopped when Bruce’s words registered. “…no? But she’s really popular. Everyone loved her tonight.”

 

“Exactly,” Bruce said. “She’s a natural at innocent soft core submissive and looks the part. If you try to copy her you’ll come off as the cheap gay knock off.”

 

He felt his colour rise again. “I dance for women too,” he muttered defensively.

 

“Your primary appeal is to men,” Bruce insisted. “And acting like Brown wouldn’t match you. Not the look you’ve chosen or the tattoo. You suit the persona you picked and we haven’t had a lasting bratty sub in a long time.” A small nod. “Good choice.”

 

Once more. “Thank you.”

 

“Keep dancing,” Bruce said. “Don’t try to be like Brown.”

 

He nodded dumbly and watched the other man straighten and walk out of the room. Once he was gone he felt the air gush out of his lungs and knees wobble within the clipped on confines of his leather pants. It hadn’t been a good night. Not like the last two. In the body of his disappointment he hadn’t been prepared for Wayne, even if the man had just descended the stairs to congratulate him on surviving his first week and ward him away from another employee’s gimmick.

 

Why? Just so he could keep Miss Brown’s perfect insipid performance unique? Just so he could try and steer Tim towards a predominantly gay and decidedly empty niche? Just so he could make sure the new stripper wasn’t getting cocky and knew his place on the bottom floor?

 

That night he logged on to Wayne Manor: BDSM Playhouse online, clicked onto Big Dick Grayson’s page, and scrolled back years until he saw the man’s earliest work. He was a stripper before was a porn star but right from the very beginning he’d distinguished himself as a bisexual switch, proved flexible enough to twist around the pole like a snake, and won the crowd with his namesake that bulged even when not erect. Tim watched Dick pull a leg backwards over his head, smile, and wink in a quick promotion for his face brand lube and then disappear only to reappear in his first infamous autofellatio scene performed on a spot lit table top scattered with poker chips and abandoned cards _._ Balanced on his shoulder blades, hips over his face, and own cock in his mouth. _God, he was perfect._ Smiling as he tongued himself, looking directly into the camera as he began to finger his exposed opening, and curling his toes as he blissed out on orgasm. It was the single video that catapulted him to fame. And Dick looked like he loved every beautiful second of it.

 

Tim clicked onto the dungeon page before his own erection became too hard to ignore and found record of that night’s dungeon live stream. It was a simple set up. Miss Brown was tied to the wall and teased with feathers, vibrators, and finally made to sit on a bulging black dildo strapped to the hips of Cassie Kane; a named dominatrix that had risen to fame in another company and walked straight into the top levels of the manor. Kane was good. She made sure Brown felt the lash of her namesake, maintained an aloof seductive air of power despite never saying a word, and ensured the show was all about Miss Brown. Making the performance possible and up scaling it until it was worth the ridiculous amount people had paid to see it live and in person.

 

 _Miss Brown_ , the description read, _a young virgin heiress cast adrift from her family fortune has caught the eye of resident dominatrix Cass Kane._

 

The view counter was already impressive and the comments filled with praise for the woman’s ‘tight little pussy’. But, unlike Big Dick Grayson, Miss Brown didn’t drink in the attention from the lens. She fluttered her eyelashes, gasped, and begged beautifully for more. Never once discarding the beautiful _breakable_ character she had created even when – with a shudder that _could not_ be fake – she squirted over the cave floor.

 

Tim slammed closed his laptop.

 

She was good. Very good. He couldn’t deny it. But he still could help but feel small and bitter about it. If he had started dancing at the manor three months ago instead of three days that could be him. He actually _was_ a virgin too. He didn’t care what Wayne said; who could sell being a virgin better than an _actual_ virgin? He knew the answer to that question before it had finished forming in his mind. Miss Brown. She could. Show or not he would never be able to gasp and plead like her, didn’t have a ‘tight little pussy’ to show off to the largest portion of porn viewers (straight men), and had a dragon on his hip. Wayne was right. She was perfect for this role. And he was not.

 

It didn’t matter. He wouldn’t let it matter. _He wouldn’t._ He had a good thing going.

 

He was a great piece of gay downstairs decoration – a bratty sub – and he was going to get rich doing what he loved; working that pole.


	6. Chapter 6

“Do you, Drake, offer extra services?”

 

Tim crawled through the narrow booth towards Ra’s al Ghul. Over the last few months the man had become a regular of his – every second Wednesday – and always left Tim extravagantly richer than when he’d found him. Sometimes it was cash, sometimes it was foreign currency, and sometimes it was gem encrusted jewellery that always fetched a staggering price at the pawn shop. Whatever it was the man choose to slip into his clothing, Tim was more than happy to shake his arse for it. On stage, in private, and once before a few of the man’s friends who had gazed at him with unabashed desire.

 

“You want more, _master_?” He purred the word playfully as he slid onto his feet and leant over the older man; letting him see his bare chest tapering down to the playful edge of his tattoo as he rolled his hips; slow, greedy, entrancing. “You already have my chain.”

 

It was true. It was a gimmick he had invented and reserved only for those with deep pockets and control fetishes but it was one he couldn’t help but enjoy. He bought a simple light gold chain that clipped onto his collar and allowed patrons to hold it during lap dances. Ra’s didn’t always ask for the simple accessory but when he did he abused the power it afforded him; tugging Tim closer than he usually danced, pulling it so he was forced to arch into unusual erotic positions, and occasionally tricking Tim into tangling himself up in it.

 

The best part about being labelled a bratty sub, he decided, was he could also – if a patron went a little too far – snap the chain back without breaking character. Most would take this as simple chastisement and would apologise. Others – Ra’s among them – seemed to like the display of cheek. Tim couldn’t blame him. It wasn’t an unattractive fantasy, he liked to flatter himself; an unruly wild submissive that needed conquering. Nothing soft, easy, and simpering like Miss Brown.

 

Miss Brown who – in the last two months – had been seen in porno after porno. She got gang banged by a host of no namers, put in a cage by Cass Kane, and was currently in the fourth hour of filming a six hour bondage; tied down and left with a brutal assembly of vibrators making her come again and again until the bed beneath her was utterly ruined.

 

Popular enough to already have her own page.

 

“I do have your chain,” Ra’s observed and ran the golden links over his gnarled knuckles. “But, I do also want more.” His eyes snaked black down Tim’s body. “I ask again; do you offer extra services?”

 

Tim froze as he realised what the man was asking. Ra’s wanted to have sex with him. That wasn’t news. But now the man was _proposing_ it. Was seriously reaching for it. Wanted it to happen. Tonight.

 

A lot of the strippers worked as prostitutes on the side; Tim had seen them book hotel rooms and slip the address and time into the pocket of patrons that paid for the extra service. But he had never done that. Never planned on doing that. If he had sex in the industry he always thought it would be with a porn star and be filmed; not something illicit smuggled to the sidelines of his life with a wealthy client.

 

But, he thought, if Ra’s paid as much as he did for simple lap dances how much would he pay for a happy ending? And there would be no need to pay tax on it. Prostitution was, after all, still an illegal activity in this state.

 

He realised he’d stopped dancing and Ra’s was looking at him with dry amusement. “Do I need to ask again, Drake?”

 

“No,” he forced his body back into the gentle lolling sound of the music. “No I… s-sorry no.” He couldn’t do it. He’d never had sex before. He couldn’t put on a show when he was so inexperienced. Couldn’t overcome the pang of fear at the idea of giving himself to this man.

 

If Ra’s was disappointed he did well hiding it. “Did I hear a stutter, Drake? And you apologised. I have never heard you speak like that before.” A fiendish hungry look. “I haven’t shaken you have I?”

 

He had. For the first time since stepping onto the floor as Timmy Drake he had broken character. In front of his most profitable regular just because the man had made a common suggestion. _Get it together!_ Tim quickly recreated his mask and worked his lips into a cocky smile. “I’m not so easy.”

 

Ras leant back. “Why is that? You don’t seem shy.” A pointed look at Tim’s fingers threading below the hem of his thong.

 

Purred. “Don’t I?” Exposed himself fully. “How strange. I promise you I am.”

 

“No, you’re not. You _know_ how tempting you are and how much you need someone over you.” Ra’s growled. Voice thick with desire. “To tame you. You want that. Secretly I know you do. You wouldn’t flaunt yourself – desperate, needy, _bratty_ – if you didn’t.” He tugged on the chain. “I want you to be my whore tonight.”

 

“I’m saving myself,” he said in the spur of the moment. Mad. Stupid. Impulsive. A flimsy excuse.

 

Ra’s blinked, snorted, and threw back his head to laugh. “Are you telling me my fierce _flirty_ little dragon is, under all that bluster, an unplucked flower?”

 

“Hah,” he swallowed the annoyance that rose to him at the remark and gyrated his hips as he kicked the last shred of cover from his body. “Wouldn’t you like to find out?”

 

“Yes,” the man responded without hesitation. “I’ll give you fifteen hundred for every hour that I use you.” There was something aggressive in his eyes now. Ugly. “And I intend to use you. All of you.”

 

“No.” Tim refused to break the beat of his body. “I am your stripper not your whore.”

 

“You…”

 

“Shh,” held a finger over Ra’s lips. “Let this little dragon dance for you.”

 

He could have handled it better. He’d been in the business long enough that he _should_ have handled it better. Especially with a man he knew spoke intimately with his boss about the performance of his workers. Would Ra’s tell Wayne about this? About the proposition? Would Wayne be angry at him for not taking up one of the manor’s richest clients on the offer? Or would Ra’s just tell Bruce Tim spoke to him poorly and broke character? He’d almost prefer it if Ra’s broke the rules and touched him. Then he would have an excuse for breaking character. An excuse to tell Wayne. An excuse for feeling angry as he finished his dance and held still while the man slotted an extra tip between his teeth; what looked like one hundred Euros.

 

Bruce never came downstairs to talk about it. Neither did Ras. The man continued to arrive every second Wednesday and Tim was still his first port of call once he stepped into the manor. He continued to earn glittering gifts and continued smiling at the Middle Eastern privately from his stage. But between them existed a subtly stronger professional line. He didn’t know if that was emulating more from him or from Ras. Either way, it was a comforting safety.

 

It also helped him realise some goals. He wasn’t just in this for the money. He couldn’t keep pretending he was anymore. If that was the case he would have taken Ra’s offer. Would have revealed as he acquired his very own horde of gold. He loved the money but, more so, he loved the stage, the show, and the spot light. He wanted the glory, wanted the fame, and wanted his own dirty little place in porn history. Because, as Tim out in the world he was ordinary, boring, and a little too smart to make friends. As Timmy Drake he was extraordinary; all the most exciting explicit pieces of his personality turned up to eleven.

 

What he told Ra’s wasn’t a lie. He was saving himself. He was saving himself for Timmy Drake. He didn’t want to lose his virginity in a dark hotel room. He wanted to lose it as The Boy with The Dragon Tattoo in a spotlight like Big Dick Grayson had when he sucked himself off on a poker table. That was his true goal, his dream; his fantasy. And he wasn’t willing to give it up for all the money in the world.


	7. Chapter 7

“Did you hear?”

 

“Hear what?” Tim was in the change rooms frowning into the mirror as Leslie showed him a new way to style his hair. All angles, spikes, and off his brow. He wasn’t sure he was a fan. As old fashioned as it may be he always thought there was something sexy in a damp fringe.

 

“About Steph,” a girl he couldn’t remember the name of hissed at him from Harley’s old spot. Harley and Ivy spent almost all their time on the second floor now and had relinquished their makeup tables and lockers on the lower floor. He missed them enough to occasionally log in and watch their _Gotham City Sirens_ series but, at the same time, with every departure from the change room he was becoming less the newbie and more accepted in the ranks of strippers. They were a fun crowd, for the most part, and with them he could exist as someone between ordinary Tim and Timmy Drake. A peaceful but still exciting third persona.

 

“Who’s Steph?” He said and raked his hair stubbornly back down.

 

“Miss Brown,” the girl whispered.

 

He pricked up his ears. “Brown? What about her?”

 

“She’s leaving.”

 

“Leaving?” He abandoned the mirror to stare at the gossip in shock. “Why? She’s doing so well. She got to the top floor. She performed with Grayson!”

 

Leslie gave up on his hair and moved on to scold a bewildered woman for wearing her bra on inside out.

 

“I know,” the gossip whispered. “But she handed in her notice in and left only a few hours ago. Everyone’s saying she’s pregnant.”

 

Tim’s eyebrows shot up. “Pregnant?! How? I thought the contract…”

 

“The contract says she _has_ to be on current birth control,” the woman finished for him with a nod. “Do you think the boss really fired her and she’s pretending to leave? Oh my gosh, do you think the father is one of the stars? If she faked her birth control did she fake her STI screen? What if she’s given them all HIV?”

 

Tim pondered this for a moment, left the wide eye woman to her mad speculation, and quickly pulled on enough clothes to be presentable in the main floor of the club. He had been at Wayne Manor for almost five months now and knew where he could get the truth of the matter from. Bouncers. The bouncers were worse gossips that the strippers or the stars and a few of the younger – and gayer – ones were always willing to try and impress him with their inside knowledge as to what was going on in the upper floors of the house. Especially after a free lap dance. Through them he learnt Miss Brown slept with Cass Kane both on and off stage, Police Woman Barbara fell from a sling in practise and hurt her back, and Big Dick Grayson was being contracted out to a company called Horny Teen Titans to do high school themed orgies with a group of young stars from all around the country. Tim’s favourite Teen Titan video so far stared Kory (long red hair, tanned skin, and impossible breasts) on a prom date with Dick. A simple match up in a simple set up. But those two somehow made it unique. It was almost relaxing watching the sex in the Teen Titan videos after he had become used to the kink and BDSM in Wayne Manor.

 

It was ten and the club was just opening its doors. A few early comers were waltzing in and eyeing him with surprise; it was unusual to see a stripper on the floor so early. All the same one offered him fifty dollars to follow her around and refill her glass. He refilled it once for free and dropped her a heavy wink before hurrying on. Before he could find a talkative bouncer, however, Mr Wayne appeared striding down the stairs with a cluster of people around him. The man saw him.

 

“Drake!”

 

He froze. There weren’t a lot of guests but there were some and he couldn’t break character in front of them. But how far would Wayne be willing to play his game?

 

“Evening, Mr Wayne,” he took the safe road with a flamboyant smile. “Whatever do you need?”

 

“You.”

 

He tried to hide his genuine confusion behind a flirtatious smile. “Me? You want little old me?”

 

“You’re always talking back, Drake,” Wayne said and for the first time Tim noticed there was a hint of urgency in his eyes. “Always trying my patience.” He saw why a moment later. One of the people who was walking with him had a camera mounted on their shoulder. He knew enough to know the box hanging off the back of it meant this was the current Wayne Manor: BDSM Playhouse Live Stream. Not a lot of people would be watching this at this time and unless something interesting happened it wouldn’t be uploaded again but, all the while, Tim was suddenly very aware that he was being broadcasted for the first time. And Bruce needed him to play along.

 

“I…” he floundered for something to say.

 

“You’re always bending the rules,” the man prompted; voice betraying none of the urgency in his gaze.

 

“I thought you _liked_ all my bending, Mr Wayne.” He forced a cheeky edge to his smile. “And, you know, I _never_ break. So what’s the harm?” It was a clumsy save but it worked. He’d kept character. Bratty, back talking, sexual.

 

Bruce’s eyes shone with gratitude. “Dorian. Eddie. See this one is punished for me.”

 

Tim’s smile disappeared like a rock in water. His shock as real as World War Two. “ _What!?_ W-Wayne! I…” Two bouncers grabbed him and hauled him out of sight of the camera as the party continued outside to inspect the stables. Once they were gone Alfred appeared.

 

“Alfred,” he panted. “W-what’s going on?”

 

“Let these two take you upstairs,” the butler said under his breath. “I’ll discuss the issue with you there.”

 

He stared numbly, looked at the gathered guests, and obediently put on a show of struggling as he was carried up the forbidden flight of stairs. Once he was out of sight the men put him down and smiled ruefully as he stared with wide eyes at his new environment. He felt like a trespasser on the second floor. Uninvited. Underdressed. Wrong. Despite it he couldn’t help but look around at the gothic corridors, ornate erotic decoration, and seductively ajar wooden doors. Performers were hurrying back and forth in varies states of dress and with a jolt he realised he recognised some from online videos. This was the second floor. _The second floor._

 

Alfred appeared beside him.

 

“We need to discuss a one night contract,” the butler told him.

 

“What’s going on?” He croaked. “Is this because of Miss Brown?”

 

The man sighed. “The lower floor and their gossip.”

 

Quickly. “It is then? She’s really pregnant?”

 

Reluctantly. “Yes. Brown through no fault of her own has taken a sudden leave of absence when we are short on staff as it is. Miss Gordon is still injured, Mr Grayson is in LA with another company, and most understudies can’t come in on weekdays. As if that isn’t enough Miss Kane is distraught and refuses to perform tonight, we still haven’t found someone to replace Mr Todd, and our _Gotham City Sirens_ have been on every night for the last nine days and are so tired they can barely get their bras on.”

 

“So, Brown didn’t have an STI?”

 

The butler’s look was flat, cold. “What sort of vicious gossip is that? Of course not.”

 

“Sorry. Yes.” he was blushing redder than his glitter. “I thought it was silly.”

 

The man stood up straighter. “Master Bruce is going to organise an emergency pony and puppy show but we still need to fill some of these rooms. If you are willing we can put you in a simple punishment set up as justified by what was shot downstairs. This is the second floor. No cameras. No sex. Just you and a partner.”

 

“Who?”

 

“We’ll still need to find someone.”

 

“Oh…” he was shaking. “Okay…” Performing. Performing on the second floor! So what if it was only one night? So what if it wouldn’t be filmed? This _had_ to be good. Better than good. He was doing Wayne a favour. The boss would be in his debt. Timmy Drake would be the star of a show.

 

“Master Timothy? Do you want to…?”

 

“Yes!” He blurted a little too loud. “I, eh, I mean yes. Thank you. Yes.”

 

A tight but relived smile. “I’m sure the master will be thrilled.”

 

If Bruce was or not it was hard to tell. He nodded once when he was told the news and told Tim to change his costume. It happened quickly after that. He signed a one night contract detailing the limits of what would be a two hour show, received a check upfront for thirty five hundred, and was wrestled into a black leather harness, latex shorts, and a bigger studded collar. Then nothing. The second floor opened to guests and he hid backstage as Wayne and Alfred tried to find a partner for him to work with.

 

By eleven his show still hadn’t started.

 

“Can’t one of the bouncers do it?” He asked hopelessly.

 

Alfred shook his head. “All our dominants are required to undergo special BDSM health and safety training. Our submissives too.” He looked at Tim, disapproval shining on every line of his face. “Master Bruce is bending the rules with you because he knows you never break them. Your character does but you don’t. You never let patrons touch you in dances, never drink alcohol on the job, and never count money in front of guests. You haven’t engaged in sex on premises and have the cleanest criminal record he has ever seen from someone who worked his way up from the bottom in this industry. He trusts you. But he’s not putting an untrained submissive onstage with an untrained dominant. It’s too risky.”

 

Tim stared at the butler. “Bruce Wayne’s seen my criminal record?”

 

Alfred’s features were made of stone. “He is quite the detective when it comes to his employees,” was all the answer he received.

 

Ten minutes to midnight he’d all but given up hope. The party was in full swing, most of the clients were at the perfect level of drunk – not too much to be disruptive but enough to open their wallets – and through the window he could see the pony and puppy show. It was a mess but going well. A woman with a horse head over her own and a jangling harness kicked up her legs in an eager goosestep at the crack of her groom’s whip, three young men in partial puppy gear were competing in a basic obstacle course, and Wayne had ducked back outside to announce a new race while two bouncers turned bookies collected bets. It was hasty and reeked of improvisation but had the crowd enthralled. As usual photos were banned but outside it was harder to stop people from taking them. He saw one woman snap a selfie on the back of a black stallion balancing on his hands and knees in hoof-boots, and a man film two female puppies begging him for treats. Among them there were a lot of official cameramen running around trying to collect footage of the haphazard event.

 

It was a stroke of genius but, Tim knew, it was also a desperate and dangerous act. The ponies and the puppies wouldn’t break out of their headspace to tell off misbehaving guests or collect money, outside fewer people were paying for drinks despite strippers running back and forth from the bar to the lawn, and there was a large group of people who were either after something more intimate or not into animal play that were trickling back towards their cars or straying upstairs looking for one of the frightfully few shows on offer that night.

 

All the while the stage he had been paid to occupy was empty.

 

He was letting Bruce down.

 

He was letting Timmy Drake down.

 

He was letting himself…

 

“Who are you?”

 

Tim looked up in shock and stared, stunned, into the drawn face of Cass Kane. _The_ Cass Kane. She wasn’t wearing her makeup and was timidly decked out in standard civilian clothes but there was no mistaking the young dominant. And she just _spoke_. Mistress Kane never spoke in any of the pornos he had seen with her. Never even moaned. It was jarring to hear her speak now, right in front of him, in a disarmingly ordinary voice.

 

“I…” he cleared his throat. “I was called up.”

 

There was a touch of anger in her voice. “Called _up_?”

 

A pause. “Yeah. I work downstairs. B-but I’ll go back down. I’m not making any money up here anyway. I’m sorry to have…”

 

“You’re one of the strippers,” Cass accused. “One of the strippers calling Steph a slut and saying she has crabs just because her damn birth control failed.”

 

“No!” He threw up his hands. “I didn’t say that.”

 

“But you _heard_ it,” she rasped. “They are saying that. I knew they were. I can’t believe it. She used to work the pole just like you, was nice to _everyone_ , but now you…” tears fell out of her eyes. “She was on birth control. She _was_. I don’t care what you lying strippers have to say!”

 

Tim stared in horror as the silent porn star shook and sobbed in front of him. The woman’s usually ice cold features were warped with emotion, her cheeks patchy and wet, and hands fisted uselessly at her side.

 

“Hey,” Tim didn’t have a clue what he was meant to say. He wasn’t bad with people. He could read them well enough to know if they wanted an arse wriggling in their lap or just a good view. He could tell if they wanted him to snark or dance quietly, if they wanted to talk about their wives while he worked, or if throwing money away was the only goal. Genuine comfort, on the other hand, had never been his forte.

 

A long pause. “I’m sorry,” Tim rasped. Aware he was speaking with someone who worked on the top level and lived on the third. “About Br—Steph. I didn’t really know her but…”

 

“Shut up,” she rasped. “You strippers talk about her. I know you’re jealous of her.”

 

“You’re right,” he admitted readily. “I-I’ve always been jealous of her. She could pull off all kinds of sexy submissive I’ll never be able to do and got into the top level after only three months dancing. _Three months_. I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to spread any rumours. I knew they were stupid. We all know they’re stupid. It’s just… hard when she’s so perfect.”

 

Cass Kane was looking at him now, eyes red and huge.

 

“She was always nice to everyone downstairs,” Tim muttered nervously; remembering his fleeting interaction with the beautiful blonde in the half night they worked together on the bottom floor. “And, um, you two made the hottest videos.”

 

The lines on her face stiffened. “You’re the first person ever to say that.”

 

“No I’m not. Everyone loves your vi—”

 

“That you’re sorry,” Cass explained.

 

Tim stared at her. “Oh.” He had never considered that he might not be the only person working the bottom floor that could be jealous of Miss Brown and what knowing that must have been like for the blonde once something had gone wrong. No wonder she left once the truth was out. She couldn’t do BDSM once pregnant and didn’t want to face the rumours that were already floating from the downstairs changing rooms. “I am sorry,” he realised. “Really.”

 

Cass sighed and ran her hand through her hair. “Thank you. I… I know it’s not fair. People gossip and she was… but thank you.”

 

He smiled weakly. Grateful he might have a chance to abandon his undeserved check and scurry back downstairs out of this woman’s turbulent presence. It was early enough he could still work the pole and carry drinks out to the show. Perhaps make a couple hundred. He hadn’t been able to do Wayne a favour but he wasn’t helping at all hiding upstairs in the feeble hopes an errant and qualified partner might walk in the door.

 

“You need a dom, don’t you?” Cass deduced before he could make his getaway.

 

“How…?”

 

“It’s the best part of the evening and you’re wasting time in here, alone, wearing a collar.”

 

“Oh.” He looked down at his hands. “I… it doesn’t matter. I’ll go back downstairs. It was just a punishment.”

 

Her eyes narrowed. “A punishment?”

 

“Yeah. No sex. No cameras. Nothing.” He tried to hide how much such a small scale show had meant to him. How much hope he had pinned on it. “No big deal.”

 

“How long?”

 

“Two hours,” he mumbled.

 

There was something black in her eyes. “I’ll do it.”

 

He stared. “What? B-but you’re _Cass Kane_. You don’t… You’re a big deal. This isn’t anything I…”

 

“I don’t usually do the second floor anymore. It’ll be nice.” She tugged her lips into a mean smile. “Plus, I have a funny desire to hit a stripper.”

 

“B-but…” he was making excuses and he didn’t know why. “I’m a bratty sub and you’re a silent dom. It’s…”

 

“ _You’re_ a bratty sub?” Her eyebrows arched. “Why? You stutter and blush. You should be an innocent. You could sell that better.”

 

Defensively. “I don’t stutter on stage. And I won’t have anything to _do_ for two hours with a silent dom. I’ll just be talking to myself.”

 

The woman stepped towards him and started ripping off her civilian clothes. “I’ll gag you.”


	8. Chapter 8

It wasn’t a perfect match up. Far from it. Timmy Drake was a snarky sub, danced mostly for older gay guys, and came with a costume that set him up for something less than soft. Mistress Kane was a silent dom, performed a majority of lesbian scenes for straight men, and did so with velvet and lace. But, despite it, she was a better partner than he could have hoped for. Cass Kane was a top level performer and her presence alone was a tantalising piece of incentive inviting people into their shared playroom. Something a no name stripper from downstairs wouldn’t have been able to do alone.

 

“Miss Kane!” Alfred looked decidedly uneasy about the arrangement as the woman fanned over the contract and added a spiky signature to the bottom of the last page. “This is highly irregular. It doesn’t match with your _character_. Master Brue would…”

 

“I’m saving his night,” the woman said curtly and thrust the paper into his arms. “He can tell me off later.”

 

“You were quite distraught earlier.”

 

“I was angry,” she told him. “I’m still angry.”

 

“Then is it really wise to…?”

 

“You!” She spun to face Tim. “Holly told you the safe word?”

 

He nodded mutely. It was a performance so they both knew what he was getting into and what the limits were. There shouldn’t be any need for a safe word… in theory. But Kane insisted on one. Nothing flashy or vocal; if he wanted a quick exit he just needed to click his fingers twice behind his back. He understood the need for it; he was an untrained sub and to Kane’s mind could well have misunderstood what he signed up for. He hadn’t. In the grand scheme of things it would be a fairly simple show. Basic punishment, a few changes for the audience to call the shots, and a two hour countdown in which guests could come and go as they pleased. He could do it. He _wanted_ to do it.

 

So why wouldn’t his hands stop shaking?

 

Before the show began Kane’s ‘mouth’ – a buxom woman named Holly – bound his forearms at the small of his back, attached straps from his harness to two pillars set on stage to lock him in position, and snapped the requested gag into place; checking with him to make sure it was comfortable. Alfred was forced to concede the integrity of the setup and left to construct a _Mistress Kane Punishes Unruly Submissive_ sign to set up outside the door.

 

Once he was gone Tim had a brief moment to gaze out into the room. He was captured on a narrow stage under a simple stark three point light setup that made the remaining red on his skin shine with a gaudy glitter. Unlike the square platforms he walked down as a stripper this stage was sunken and in the centre of a cone of luxury cinema seating each with enough distance and darkness between them to allow for discreet masturbation among clientele. As an unseen lighting technician fiddled with a control board the seats dipped into near darkness and the key light on him became even stronger; near blinding.

 

He could just make out the doors opening, the first guests making their way into the room, and then Mistress Kane walking towards him in full leather with a long cane scraping casually along the stage behind her. That wasn’t right. In her videos Mistress Kane has been cool, collect, and in command of herself and her environment to a terrifying erotic degree. Nothing casual. Nothing haphazard. Not a sound. That was the last thing he saw before the woman stepped forward and strapped a massive blindfold over his face.

 

A blindfold? This early? It was one of the things allowed in the contract but he hadn’t expected her to start making changes to his set up straight away. He felt his nerves rise until he was sure his shiver was obvious to the assembling audience.

 

“Mistress Kane does not like the way you look at her,” he heard Holly’s voice ring out.

 

Stay in character. You’re not broken yet. _You’re not easily broken_. You’re Timmy Drake.

 

He forced a muffled laugh through the gag and made a show of tugging and testing his bonds. He didn’t expected any kind of immediate response. They had two hours to kill and right now they were just setting the scene. He was a bratty sub and she, well, she was _Mistress Kane_ and she was going to punish him.

 

But Kane did respond. Hard. Fast. With a single lash of her cane across his chest that let out a rounding _crack_.

 

He yelped in pain, recoiled, and became immediately aware the strike would leave a smarting red line across his middle. It hadn’t even been a _minute._ What was she doing? They had two hours to fill. And every show had to have a climax. It would – _should_ – get more intense from here. With such a basic contract, if they started out so strong, how would they follow through for the rest of the time? _How would he survive another one hundred and nineteen minutes of this?_ No! He savagely dismissed the thought. She knew how to work audiences a million times better than him. He would not let Wayne down – he would not let Timmy Drake down – and back out just because she took things quickly. He woul—

 

Another crack and another lash directly over his already stinging skin.

 

Tim let himself cry out into his gag. Timmy Drake had always been vocal and he saw no reason to stop now.

 

The third lash came from the opposite direction and crossed over the first two. He allowed himself another smothered cry, bit into his gag, and thrashed venomously at where the woman must be standing. It was a fleeting and unconvincing demonstration of defiance. His shoulders were trembling, breathing hard, and bare feet strangely cold despite the pleasant temperature of the room. _Some_ of that had to show to whatever sort of audience they had. If that was a good thing or not he didn’t know.

 

Holly. “He is a defiant one, mistress. He disrespected the Master of the House. Now he disrespects y—”

 

A fourth resounding crack. Tim flinched but the pain never reached him. Instead he heard Holly gasp as the cane came down on her. “I’m sorry, mistress. Thank you, mistress. Of course you know that already. Forgiv—” another strike. Holly’s pained gasp was laced erotically with a secretive purr of pleasure.

 

Tim took comfort from that sound. From the knowledge that this show was, for the dom and her helper at least, going as planned. Of course it was going as planned! How stupid of him to think otherwise. This was _Cass Kane_. She knew what she was doing. She wouldn’t have reached every level of Wayne Manor if she didn’t. If she couldn’t milk every moment out of a second floor show and turn something basic into something exciting. _A performance_. This was just a tactic. She was starting hard, fast, and hooking in however many people were already filling the seats. Filling the seats to see her. Because she, he had to admit, was the main star of this show. Hewas a bottom floor stripper that _wouldn’t spoil it_ because he was an idiot and didn’t know what to expect. Everything was going to be oka—.

 

“Hoist him.”

 

The bottom dropped out of Tim’s stomach.

 

Kane just spoke. She _never_ spoke on stage. What did that mean? Were there no patrons in the room right now? It seemed unlikely they would have all left so soon after arriving. So what else could it mean? Was Kane breaking character because this show wasn’t being filmed? Could she get away with that? And, if she was breaking character, was she also willing to break the rules? To break the carefully set lines in the contract?

 

He forced himself to relax. No. That was ridiculous. He had a safe word; two clicks of his fingers. He could get out of this if she went too far. But she wouldn’t. He trusted her. He had to trust her.

 

Holly obediently tightened the leather holding him to the two pillars until they were taunt and he was just balancing on the edge of his toes. The position was uncomfortable, strained his legs, but the alternative was swinging from his harness which would cut painfully under his arms.

 

He heard something that sounded like a chain clip onto the front of his collar and made a show of being inquisitive instead of obediently waiting for his punishment. He turned towards new sounds, tested his confinement, and even managed a grin around the gag. As he did so he felt the first fleeting tendril of fun penetrate his nervousness. He was Timmy Drake, on _the second floor_ , and on stage. He imagined himself trussed up, _gorgeous_ , and gazed at by red cheeked patrons. The cheeky centrepiece to Cass Kane’s stage. That idea mixed in his mind with the sensation of being held, of being observed, of being _punished_ left him light headed and prickled warm between his legs.

 

Timmy Drake liked this. Tim liked this. _He_ liked this. Even if he was still terrified.

 

Some time (it was impossible to tell how long) into the show his erection was crushed painfully in the shorts and no doubt _very_ visible to whatever crowd was hidden behind his blindfold. He was trembling enough to rattle the metal in his harness, dreading and anticipating the next strike of the dominatrix’s cane, and switching indecisively between swinging on his harness and scrambling to stand on his toes. His calves and feet were on fire, under arms equally as painful, and every time he managed to find a teetering and semi comfortable way to stand Kane would whip him hard enough to send him swinging again.

 

Sometimes he heard murmured reactions from the audience. It could be from one person or thirty. He couldn’t tell. But he drank it in like it was bundles of freshly minted money thrown on stage.

 

Then it stopped. He thrashed desperate for both release and for the return of that feeling. _Hurts… hurts so… ah…_

 

But this denial was also part of his punishment and, whatever Kane was doing now, it seemed to be drawing an eager murmur from the crowd.

 

“One hour left,” Holly’s voice breathed in his ear as – while attention was elsewhere – she quickly readjusted his blindfold and slipped his gag out for a moment to let him wet his lips. One hour? They’d done this for an hour already? It felt like minutes. _It felt like years._ He wanted more. _He didn’t know how much more he could take._ “You’re doing great. Just keep it up,” she whispered and then, in a louder voice. “Do you submit?”

 

He didn’t move. Didn’t shake his head. Didn’t nod. He’d been making too much noise to pretend he wasn’t hurting now. But he wasn’t ready to give in yet. So he didn’t respond either way. Didn’t defy but didn’t submit either.

 

“Are you sorry?” Holly pushed.

 

Kept his head still despite his shaking shoulders.

 

_“Can you hear me?”_

 

To this he nodded which drew a number of scandalized and eager noises out of the crowd. He heard someone call him a bitch, and wearily congratulated himself on being able to earn that somewhat less than complimentary version of ‘bratty’ without ever being able to utter a word.

 

Kane was tapping her cane against something. Her thigh or her palm, he guessed. A fast and furious tempo, full of painful promise, and still nerve rackingly out of character. She’d told Alfred she was angry. And she’d been going full on since the start. Was she trying to overly hurt him? Trying to get him to back out? It was a vicious thought and he thrust it aside. Still he couldn’t banish the sound of her cane. Tap tap tap. Close. Close enough to strike him.

 

One more hour. It seemed like not enough time and also time enough to kill.

 

A deep breath.

 

There was some clanking and snapping sounds he couldn’t distinguish and some noise from the audience. Perhaps they were deciding his next punishment? It was in the contract that this session would be semi interactive ‘at the dominant’s discretion and within the limits outlined above’. At an hour it would be about time for those kind of games. But if they were why wasn’t he hearing anything? Why…?

 

The bonds holding him off the ground were suddenly loosened. He fell with a thump and a moan onto the stage. Agony surged through his abused body; whipped flesh stung, calves ached, and chest raw where his harness had chaffed him. He would have stayed lying there longer if the chain on his collar wasn’t suddenly pulled taught forcing him back onto his feet. His hands were still firmly fastened behind his back but otherwise all other tethers were gone. He staggered as he was pulled to what must have been the very lip of the stage. _Surely another step and he would fall into the audience. Surely._ But Kane forced him to edge blindly forward further and further.

 

He grunted in protest through his gag and tried to plant his feet. Kane was unforgiving. One more relentless tug brought him another step forward and then the chain was fastened high keeping him in place on the edge of the stage. Why was he here? What was she doing?

 

A voice. A new voice. A voice he recognised. “Show me his left hip.” Ra’s.

 

It was the second Wednesday.

 

Tim felt his heart pick up as his shorts were ripped off to display the dragon tattoo (among other things) which, until then, had been hidden by the high hem of leather and latex around him hips. An interested murmur from the room and a low laugh from the man Tim knew was seated directly before him. Close enough to touch. But, as always, Ra’s didn’t break the rules.

 

“I missed you downstairs, little dragon. Didn’t recognise you at first without your red collar behind all that gear.” A purr of amusement. “What, Drake, have you done to deserve this?”

 

Tim puckered his cheeks into a smile and rolled his shoulders in a stiff shrug.

 

 _Crack!_ The sound was loud enough to echo in the space of the room. Tim heard his voice, muffled and broken, shriek in pain. He’d spent the last hour getting his chest, back, legs, and – through his shorts – his arse whipped until he was sure he was as red as his glitter. But this blow had been harder and aimed directly at his erection.

 

“You like this,” he heard Kane hiss. “You _like_ taking her place.”

 

“You know what you did!” He heard Holly call out; loud enough to try and cover Kane’s break in charcter. “You disrespected the Master of the House! _In front of guests_! You broke the rules.” Something in the way she spoke told Tim she wasn’t talking to him.

 

“I…” Kane went quiet, seemed to realise she had overstepped her mark.

 

But the audience hadn’t. He heard some muffled groans and a few shouted suggestions for punishments. Each more explicit than the last. Someone volunteered the idea of a sling, someone else wanted him strapped up to a fucking machine, and a third boldly requested he be fitted with a spider gag and put at the front door as a free oral slut. All of it beyond the bounds of the contract. Tim was surprised to find he felt some remorse at that fact.

 

But then he heard a double finger click. Soft. A sound irrelevant enough to be ignored by the audience.

 

The safe word.

 

He hadn’t done it. It came from the place he last heard Kane.

 

She was done. She wanted out. He had to end the scenario as soon as possible. _Damn…_

 

He made a sharp wretched noise as if overwhelmed by the latest suggestion and violently shook his head.

 

“Do you submit?” Holly offered hopefully.

 

He nodded and heard a couple of disappointed sighs from the crowd. He shared the sentiment but was also relieved to hear Kane stride off stage; heels making a solid _thunk_ when they met the floorboards and the backstage exit slamming behind her.

 

Holly unclipped his chain and led his back a few paces away from the edge of the stage. There, to his surprise, she gave his chain a firm tug, released his arms, and whispered in his ear. “Most will leave now but let’s draw it out for another five minutes to give the old goats some time to finish off.” Louder for the ears of the remaining audience. “You’ve pleased the mistress but I want to see how much you enjoy your place _on the ground_.”

 

She pushed and he made a show of falling onto the floorboards. He arched his back and whined at the pressure of the collar but rejoiced in the freedom of his arms. No longer trapped in his harness behind his back, they flared around him; joining his legs in a willing and wanton spreadeagle. Holly placed a heeled boot on his chest, keeping him down, and in an authoritative growl instructed him to bring himself off.

 

Oh. _Oh._

 

He felt a flush of embarrassment at the knowledge that touching himself before a crowd was harder for him than being hung up and beaten for an unseen audience to masturbate to. But, at the same time, the throbbing weight of his member couldn’t deny the merit of the idea. He wanted this. He _needed_ it. And so, without further hesitation, he reached down and obeyed.

 

He thought of Big Dick Grayson’s first solo performance. Tim wasn’t sucking his own cock – doubt he could if he tried – but, like Dick, he _was_ putting on a show. He threw back his head and moaned into his gag, spread his legs for the benefit of anyone who might be sitting in the left wing of seats, gyrated his hips up into his fist. _Prayed_ there was still some people left to enjoy his show. But how could he tell? Holly struck his inner thigh with a riding crop when he started to sit up and pushed him roughly back onto the ground. _God_ , if he wasn’t hard before that brought him to the brink. He gazed into the darkness of his blindfold and imagined that touch was from Big Dick Grayson. Imagined he was doing a porno with the man himself. Imagined Timmy Drake smiling at him from a mirror in the ceiling about to lose his virginity to his favourite porn star. _If_ he could please the crowd.

 

He arched, he writhed, he bucked… at some point Holly pulled off his gag and his blindfold and he put his face into the mix as well. Moaning broken and hoarse, fluttering his eyes towards the lights to make them shine, and making sure his bliss was explicit in the assembly of his features.

 

Holly. “Do you submit?”

 

“Y-es.”

 

“Are you sorry?”

 

“Ah! Yes!”

 

“Who’s your master?”

 

That gave him pause.

 

She struck his thigh. A sharp sting of pain. “Who is your master?”

 

“Master Wayne,” he croaked.

 

She nodded. “Good. Master Wayne gives you permission to come.”

 

It was the single best orgasm of his life.


	9. Chapter 9

“I’m sorry.” Cass Kane was looking over Wayne’s shoulder at Tim. “I was angry, upset, I shouldn’t have been performing.”

 

“Then why the hell _were_ you performing?!” Bruce yelled.

 

A deep breath. “It was a mistake. One I will not make again.”

 

“No you won’t. Because you won’t be getting back on stage.”

 

Cass’s eyes widened and locked onto the angry businessman. “I… You’re firing me? Just because I broke character? Cut a show short?”

 

“H-hey…” Tim tried to cut in.

 

“Quiet,” Wayne snapped.

 

He obeyed. Hated that, behind the scenes here, he was just Tim and just Tim wasn’t the type to defy authority.

 

Holly was in civilian clothes in the corner; fire truck red hair bundled into twin pig tails and nails coloured a matte black. She looked frightened. It was strange seeing her after the show last night. He felt like he had become intimate with her voice from behind the blindfold but was still estranged with the body it belonged to. He learnt she was an ex-prostitute Catwoman had recommended, had only recently completed her BDSM occupational health and safety, and by her own request was still working under doms as their aid and switch as she decided who her character was.

 

She also had a girlfriend with bright pink hair that came by every night to pick her up.

 

“Look,” Kane tried to defend herself. “I messed up. I’m sorry. I’ll do whatever re-training you like but…”

 

Wayne lifted a remote and the frozen image on the wall started playing in reverse. It was security footage of last night’s show. From the high angle Tim could see those that had lingered to watch his masturbation climax – more than he expected including Ra’s in the first row – and him lying sprawled; covered in an obscene amount of his own come. As the scene reversed he saw himself walk backwards to the lip of the stage and Cass Kane’s strike at his exposed front.

 

“I’m sorry,” the woman said. “I know that…”

 

“ _That_ is not what’s concerning me,” Bruce told her and froze the footage. “What is wrong with this scene?”

 

“It’s…” Kane trailed off. She had no heart left to fight. Not for her reputation or her job. She was barely looking at the screen. Tim couldn’t blame her. She was still grieving the loss of her playmate and partner. Whatever rule she had broken it didn’t seem like the right time to punish her. Surely…

 

“Oh my God!” Holly cried; eyes locked onto the screen in horror. “We… he could have…”

 

“Exactly,” Bruce said crisply. “You risked his life.”

 

“Huh?” Tim looked at the frame of footage again. Searched for the apparently life threatening danger. Couldn’t see it. Sure, she’d hit him hard but other than that there was nothing amiss about the scene. He was standing at the edge of the stage, hands behind his back, and collar linked to a chain… fixed above his head. The realisation hit him like a ton of bricks. It was only a couple feet drop if he’d fallen off the stage and where he was standing it was extremely unlikely it would have happened. But if he _had_ fallen that collar and that chain would have hung him. Even then the likelihood of it killing him was low but, if the angle had been right, the drop could have snapped his neck.

 

Cass realised the mistake a moment later. “I… I’m so… I…” Her face crumbled. “I’m so…”

 

Without thinking Tim stood, strode across the narrow room, and wrapped her in a tight hug. “It’s okay.”


	10. Chapter 10

“Did you learn anything from your punishment?”

 

There were so many answers to that question. Tim would say yes. He learnt that dominants make mistakes, that porn stars are fallible, and that even as a submissive he was as responsible as anyone else on that stage. But he wasn’t Tim just then so his answer was different.

 

“Yes,” Timmy Drake said with a wicked smile. “If all punishments end _like that_ I should break the rules more often.”

 

Ra’s laughed, “Such a needy brat” and pushed a couple hundred into Tim’s boot. He’d been off his game the last couple of weeks since the incident and tried not to look grateful as he accented the tip.


	11. Chapter 11

Tim walked the last couple of drunken patrons out the door as the manor closed for the night; a chatty woman whose dress was sagging below the hem of her bra, and her husband who was shyly trying to suggest a threesome. He gave the textbook response; “Alas, I never mix business and pleasure.”

 

The woman gave him a textbook answer. “But _isn’t_ your business pleasure? You’re in the pleasure industry!” Grinned loosely at her own wit.

 

He returned with a practised parry. “Oh, I get up to _much_ worse than this in my time off.” It wasn’t his best wisecrack but it seemed to earn the titter of aroused amusement he was after.

 

It had been a good night on the bottom floor. A lot of happy customers, a lot of big tips, and a lot of lap dances. A man in a wheelchair had kept Tim by his side for most of the night and Timmy Drake had been the centre of attention every time he took to the stage. If the success downstairs flowed up to the higher levels or not he didn’t know. And, Tim was surprised to find out, he was fine with that. It had been just under seven months since he first took the job and for the first time he wasn’t trying to move up to the second floor or down into the dungeon. He was just having fun and secretly flattering himself with the belief that he was best male stripper on roster. Perhaps even the best stripper full stop.

 

He worked more often now and in his days off he lived the life his income allowed him. He’d moved into a better apartment, was an active member of the local gym, and taking classes in anything that caught his eye. Dancing, leatherwork, yoga… He’d even found charitable use of the makeup skills Leslie taught him at the local Primary School Fete as a volunteer at the face painting stall; he produced Spiderman, a Dalmatian puppy face, and butterflies all doused with a healthy amount of glitter.

 

Life it seemed had worked out well despite his small but semi disastrous foray into the second floor almost two months before. He had money, he had regulars, and he’d even been mentioned in a couple of reviews of the manor. ‘…from the feisty boy with the dragon tattoo downstairs to…’ ‘…flamboyant personas extend even to the ground floor where you’ll find, among others, snarky submissive Timmy Drake…’

 

Life was busy. Life was good.

 

He waved the couple out the door, slouched once he was out of sight, and took off his boots to walk lazily back through the club. It was a mess. A bra hung off a gagged bust, the sides of the stages were lined with empty glasses, and a split platter of berries and cream had been stomped into the floor. Soon the cleaners would arrive to start preparing for the manor’s partial midday opening. They sometimes worked right up until ten pm when the doors opened in earnest. That was when he would be reporting in tomorrow for yet another full night’s shift. The thought was both a happy and exhausting one. It would be his third night dancing in a row and while Tim was tired he loved the money and Timmy Drake loved the attention.

 

He stepped into the change rooms. Most of the other strippers were already in civilian clothes and rummaging for their keys. He moved slowly hoping to avoid the inevitable traffic jam in the car park as they all tried to leave at once and took extra time struggling to remove the glitter from his skin; he was fairly sure it was as permanent as his tattoo at this point. As the last of the others left he took his dinner from the fridge and went outside to sit on the grass and watch the sun rise. It was beautiful and bright red behind the Gotham’s infamous smog cloud and threw haunting shadows off the gothic architecture.

 

“Hey.”

 

He looked up. Froze.

 

Big Dick Grayson.

 

 _The_ Big Dick Grayson.

 

Dick Grayson dressed in ordinary black and blue clothes, standing beside him, and yawning as if he wasn’t a god in human flesh that accidentally wandered into his life.

 

He didn’t look like he did online. The shape of his face was blunter, the bag of his clothes hid his infamous bulge, and there was the faint promise of shadow under his eyes. But the inconsistencies and imperfections somehow made him even more impossible; god-like. This was _Big Dick Grayson_. The _real_ Big Dick Grayson. Close enough to touch if he had been bold enough to try.

 

And he wasn’t alone. He had a dog with him. Not a human puppy. An actual dog. Grey around the muzzle and sniffing at Tim’s unfinished pasta.

 

“Hey,” Tim squeaked in response, a little too late.

 

The man was already striding sleepily by him towards the trees. Dutifully, Tim realised, giving the dog a walk before bed. “Come on Ace old boy. Just a little way today.” It was a shockingly domestic activity for the Big Dick Grayson to be caught doing.

 

But the dog was more interested in Tim’s food; ignoring the porn star’s summons and wagging his tail as he snuffled hopefully at the packaged meal.

 

“I-I’m sorry,” Tim quickly gathered up the pasta and lurched to his feet. “I was j-just leaving.” If those living in residence in the manor were coming downstairs they clearly expected everyone – guests, bouncers, and strippers – to be gone. It was now forty minutes after the time he was scheduled to leave and he suddenly felt like an intruder. A trespasser. “I’ll just get my bag and…”

 

“You’re the dragon kid, right?”

 

His stomach was in knots. Big Dick Grayson _knew_ him? No. He couldn’t. It was impossible. “Y-yeah. But, I mean, I just strip so if you’re thinking of another dragon person or…”

 

“What other dragon person?”

 

“I… I don’t know… but…”

 

“Are you saying it was another dragon person that got my friend fired?”

 

Tim’s insides turned to tar. Burning. Black. Wrong. “No… no, that was me. I’m sorry.” What else could he say? It was the truth. Raw and real. He was sorry. It was him. He couldn’t pretend otherwise; not even for Big Dick Grayson.

 

The man sighed and seemed to deliberately put something aside. “Bruce says you’re good,” he told him. His voice wasn’t curt or cruel but there was no shred of warmth in it. Detached. “That’s high praise coming from him.”

 

Hopelessly. “It is?”

 

A nod. “I worked downstairs for two years before he noticed me. I mean, noticed me in a _good_ way instead of noticing me breaking the rules.”

 

Tim gazed at him in wonder. “You broke the rules?”

 

The man snorted and opened his mouth to say something. His phone buzzed. Tim watched the porn star fumble to retrieve the thing from his pocket and press it to his ear. “Yeah?” Something in his gaze changed. “Dude, is that you? How have you been… seriously? I mean seriously…” he began to walk away with the dog. “Everyone’s been saying you were, like, dead or something. Are you going to come back or…?”

 

Tim watched him go. Is that really what his hero thought of him? The dangerous sub that got his friend fired? It was an ugly thought and one he didn’t want to believe. But, he realised, it was entirely possible. His visit to the second floor was the only way his name would have been circulated to the higher levels. There were too many strippers that changed over too often for the porn stars to be able to remember their names let alone match them to a face. Yet, Dick Grayson hadn’t seemed angry at him. Just reserved. Like he knew it wasn’t his fault and privately hated that he couldn’t find a target to blame.

 

He went back inside, gathered up his bags miserably, and finally made the walk to the near empty car park. To his surprise he saw one of the bouncers picking through his keys by a sleek grey _Subaru Impreza_. The man was new. Mark? Mike? Tim couldn’t remember. But he smiled as he saw Tim approach.

 

“Hi! Stayed late? Me too.” The man stood awkwardly by his car as Tim stopped by his own. “You, eh, were really good tonight. You’re the only stripper I’ve seen use a chair.”

 

“I’ve been taking burlesque classes,” Tim admitted with a forced tired smile; trying to banish the less than fairy tale meeting with Big Dick from his mind. “Chairs are a good gimmick for tips.”

 

The man approached. “Really? What’s the class like?”

 

“Interesting I guess.” He was the only man in a class of twenty three; most there for a pale taste at the glamour he lived in every night he danced. Though they would never admit it. Still, he enjoyed the classes and the original meet and greet had been worth it. _Hi my name is Stacy and I’m here to work out. Hi I’m Helen and I want to surprise my husband. Hi my name is Tim and I’m a professional stripper at Wayne Manor looking for tricks of the trade._ “Really,” Tim went on as he pulled open his car door, “it’s stripping without the tips. Oh, and bits of tinsel over the nipples.”

 

The man laughed more than the remark deserved and put his hand on Tim’s car.

 

In an instant Tim knew Mike/Mark/whatever was flirting with him. _Him_. He’d never been flirted with when not arching and winking; deep in the persona of Timmy Drake and the attention would have been flattering if he didn’t know the bouncer was after that personality. He’d watched his shows, seen the character, and wanted a taste of the bratty sub.

 

He turned to him, game face on; independently declared snarky submissive, boy with the dragon tattoo, _Timmy Drake_. “I’m sorry, big boy, I don’t mix business and pleasure.”

 

The man’s face, which had picked up at seeing the change in demeanour sunk. “But… you’re _in_ the pleasure business. How do you not mix business and pleasure?”

 

“I get up to _much_ wors—”

 

“That’s a line isn’t it?” He interrupted him. “You’re feeding me a line. Like the stuff you tell the rich old guys that come in here.”

 

Tim stood. Guilty as charged.

 

“Look,” the bouncer made his pitch. “I ain’t rich but I ain’t old and you’re fucking gorgeous. If you don’t want to do anything more we could just, you know, have some fun. What’s wrong with that?”

 

What was wrong with that? He was probably the only virgin ever to last this long in the sex industry – assuming other virgins even made it into the sex industry – and for what? Just to cling to the fantasy of giving his first time to Timmy Drake with a named porn star? Just for the chance to be able to log onto Wayne Manor’s racy website and experience his first time again through the eyes of a camera? Just so he could pretend maybe, just maybe, his first time would be with someone like Big Dick Grayson.

 

But was he willing to wait two years to see if that fantasy came true? Did he want to lose his virginity to a man who was only pretending to like him for the cameras? Who actually thought he got his friend fired? What made a quick shag in the back of his car any less meaningful than dinner, candle light, or a BDSM porno?

 

Timmy Drake answered that. That should have alarmed him; how _alive_ and dangerously real this character had become. But it didn’t. He turned towards the part of him that was Timmy Drake like he was responding to a lover’s touch. Drake in turned, turned to him; every motion dripping with flamboyant outrage as he blew his doubts away like they were nothing but a stack of glitter in the palm of his hand. _You’re saving yourself,_ Tim _, for a first time_ worth _remembering._ The boy with the dragon tattoo told him. _You’re saving yourself because you have never been harder,_ come _harder, than when you were on that stage on the second floor. You’re saving yourself for me._ He saw, in his mind’s eye, one of Timmy Drake’s shameless wilful smiles. _Fuck Big Dick._ I’m _worth the wait._


	12. Chapter 12

As it turned out, the wait wasn’t long.

 

Five days later he walked into work to find Wayne leaning against his locker looking at him, as usual, like a wolf looks at a lamb.

 

“I want to put a dom over you.”

 

“Put a…?” Tim stared at him. _“What?”_

 

“I want to put a dom over you.” Spoken like a farmer coolly discussing putting a ram over a ewe.

 

“I…” he wasn’t sure how he was meant to react. He’d arrived, as usual, early for work and was alone in the change rooms with the other man. Was he meant to thank him? To question him? Or give his permission. “I… I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” he said softly.

 

The man’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

 

“I… I talked with B—Grayson. I’m not sure the people in the upper levels like me.”

 

“Are you going to let that stop you?”

 

He opened his mouth to say something, closed it, and stared. Was he? He wanted this. That want had been burning low these last couple of months and Wayne’s suggestion was like petrol on the fire; bringing the want back into blazing brilliant life. But, at the same time, it was tempered with the fresh memory of Grayson’s cool tone of voice the week before. Dancing was fun. But, if everyone upstairs hated him, would working up there be fun too?

 

“What happened with Kane wasn’t your fault,” Bruce told him stonily. “You were untrained. You shouldn’t have been performing. That was my mistake.”

 

“I’m still untrained,” Tim reminded him.

 

“That can be rectified.”

 

Voice weak. “Why?”

 

“You’re a good dancer,” the man continued. “You wield that pole like a staff, have a consistent character, and haven’t lost any passion from the day you first started. That’s why you have regulars, that’s why you get mentioned, that’s why you kept the audience in that room after Kane walked out.” A hard look. “You’re good. I want a piece of that. I’m not making any money off you downstairs, Drake. Until recently that was unavoidable. I didn’t have a place I could put you; I didn’t have a partner, set up, or a storyline that worked with your character. Now I do.”

 

Tim’s knees were shaking. “Who?” _Could it be Big Dick Grayson?_

 

“He’s an old employee that’s come back,” Wayne said dismissively, crushing Tim’s feeble hope. “If you make me money I’ll continue your character. Set up a regular second floor show and maybe schedule you for the dungeon or top floor work. If you do well, get established, I’ll send you out to other companies to work with other porn stars. Build up the notches on your bedpost.”

 

“ _Other_ porn stars?” Tim croaked.

 

“Yes,” the man said simply. “That’s what I’m offering. I want to make you a porn star.”

 

“Oh…” It was the Wayne Manor: BDSM Playhouse life served up on a silver platter… if he had the skill to take it. “I…”

 

“Is this something you are interested in?”

 

“I…” Tim tried again. He felt like he was about to faint. Palms sweaty, heart pounding, and body buzzing. “Yes…” he rasped. “Yes I am.”


	13. Chapter 13

From that moment on the world he knew spiralled out of control. He felt like jelly as he danced that night, accidentally fell into the lap of someone he was giving a private dance, and was so sweaty he stuck to the pole like glue. As he left he found information on the BDSM workplace health and safety course in his locker. To his surprise it was held on the second floor of the manor in a disused room; brightly lit, friendly, and offered for a price to those living and working outside the manor for their own private use of BDSM. He was taught the rules of being a dom as well as a sub so he knew the process of a scene inside and out, learnt that the double click was the standard subtle safe word of Wayne Manor, and was even given a basic 101 on how to properly lift heavy loads. Wayne was nothing if not thorough.

 

In the week that followed he was introduced in earnest to the online patronage of Wayne Manor: BDSM Playhouse. While he had been mentioned in reviews and comments smattered around the site the vast majority of their online audience didn’t know him and so he was thrown head first into a short but strong publicity campaign. First, he was filmed dancing on a pole in his old red collar and chain as part of an ad for the site, then was subjected to a brazen; lascivious and _dripping wet_ photo shoot with – among other things – a bottle of champagne that went into the online gallery as ‘Timmy Drake introduces himself’, and finally an in character – and terrifyingly unscripted – interview.

 

He lazily side saddled the chair, his golden chain crossed over his chest, and leather pants low enough to exhibit the tail end of his tattoo. The camera gazed at him from a mount nearby; lens wide without being generous and carefully angled to capture the best parts of him without seeing any of the lights or the low hanging boom microphone.

 

“…enjoying the manor?”

 

“Mm,” Timmy Drake lolled in his seat. “Yes, I suppose.”

 

“You seem bored,” the interviewer commented. Seizing the pickup.

 

“I am. No one here quite _gets me_. Wayne hasn’t _really_ noticed me yet, the submissives are so dull, and the dominants, well,” he flashed a sharp smile. “I haven’t met one that can handle _me_.”

 

“Would you describe yourself as submissive?”

 

He shrugged and nodded.

 

“Some have used the word ‘bratty’.”

 

“I’ve been called worse things.”

 

He could tell by the way the director nodded that he was doing well but not doing great. He was selling the bratty submissive but nothing beyond that. Nothing unique. Nothing quite _Timmy Drake_. It was hard. He had never thought about the ingredients that made up his character before let alone had so much in stake when he applied them.

 

_It’s okay. They’ll edit it to make you look good. Just keep going._

 

“Tell us about your first sexual experience.”

 

“I…” he felt his voice fail and blinked. “Huh?”

 

“Keep rolling,” the director called. “It’s okay. You’re doing well. Let’s just feed you that question again.”

 

He felt a prickle touch his cheeks as the interviewer obediently pitched him the question again.

 

“Tell us about your first sexual experience.”

 

He had seen this in the interview with Big Dick Grayson. The man had told the camera an impossible story of being seduced by his high school Spanish teacher during detention. He assumed that was the norm and flicked through all the pornos he had seen looking for a suitable story. Before he could find one the truth bubbled up; raw, real, and decidedly unsexy in the words of a snarky submissive.

 

“The thing is,” his mouth worked without his permission. Worked with all the playful grins, sounds, and flickers of tongue he was accustomed to when playing the Timmy Drake role. “I _love_ precious things. The reason why I came to the manor, the real reason, was to find those precious things. One thing in particular.”

 

“Money?” The interview said in surprise.

 

“Money?” he laughed. “Money is boring. I have enough money. I have _a lot_ of money.” He leant forward. “I’m after something better than money. I want a memory. I want a perfect, agonising, first time that’ll be _worth_ remembering. That I won’t need to remember because I’ll _feel_ it for days and be able to _see_ it anytime I want.”

 

Stunned. “You’re a virgin?”

 

Tim rolled his lip. “Virgin is such an ugly word. I’m… _selfish_ with my treasures.”

 

Twenty minutes after the interview was concluded, while lingering on the deserted second floor, Wayne fell on him like a storm down a mountain.

 

“Drake!”

 

He flinched. “Mr Wayne I…”

 

“What the hell are you doing?” The man snarled as he strode towards him. “Pulling a V card?!”

 

“I thought…” Tim felt himself back into a wall before he realised he’d been retreating. “I just…”

 

“I _told_ you not to copy Brown!” Bruce yelled. “You _work_ as a bratty sub. People like that! Why the hell are you breaking character now? Why the hell are you throwing this away?”

 

“I’m not.”

 

The man’s eyes flashed. “You’re turning yourself into a one trick pony, Drake. They’ll crowd in to see your first performance then forget about you. You don’t have the staying power of Brown. Not with this gimmick.” Face tight with anger. “I had big plans for you.”

 

His cheeks were red with a mix of embarrassment and scolding resentment. “I can do it,” he rasped. “I can sell it. I know I can.” _I’ve been silently selling it since the very start._

 

The truth was, Timmy Drake’s character needed to have a loss of virginity. _Needed_ to be dominated and taken. And it needed to be the kind of earth shattering thing a loss of virginity would be… And Tim needed to do it with him. To experience it. To _live_ that part of the character knowing it was, had always been, an intrinsic part of him. If the character could continue to exist beyond that point Tim didn’t know but, ignoring it, he had nothing. Pretending otherwise meant losing Timmy Drake.

 

“You had a good thing going.” Bruce continued; relentless. “What the hell made you—?”

 

“Because it’s the truth!” He interrupted him. “Timmy Drake’s a virgin.” A long pause. “I’m a virgin.”

 

Wayne stared at him.

 

“But,” he realised the mistake that confession could become and quickly started to repair the damage, “that doesn’t matter. I can do it. I’ve done the training, I know the character, and I can take the heat. I can. I want to. Sex is the least scary thing in the whole dungeon. So what if I’m a virgin? I know I can do it.”

 

A stretched silence. “This isn’t a good idea.”

 

His heart twisted. “Please! Trust me! Just trust me.” He looked at him. Begged him. “Give me this. Just… I’ll prove it to you.”

 

The man returned his gaze for a long time. Then, “the dom I had in mind for you plays rough.” A soft warning. “He won’t take it easy on you because you’re a virgin. I fired him once for breaking the rules.”

 

Tim slowly ingested these words. “And you’re bringing him back?”

 

“Yes. He’s passed all the retraining, proven he can handle it in private shows…” a long pause. “I want you on my card but I want him back more and I chose you because you never break the rules. You set hard boundaries and you keep them, you obey your contracts, and your characters match up perfectly. Gay. Alternative. Bratty sub and a dom that demands total submission.” He paused as if to drive a point home, but Tim wasn’t sure he was seeing it. “You took a brutal punishment from Kane but you never risked yourself and responded immediately to use of the safe word without breaking character or scenario.” A hard look. “I thought you knew what you were doing. You were inexperienced but showed integrity. I thought you would be a good partner for this dom.”

 

He had a choice to back out. He saw it pop up like a decision in a computer game. He even toyed with the idea. By the sound of it this wasn’t going to be an easy ride. No Big Dick Grayson bottoming for someone else while he topped him or Cass Kane trying Miss Brown up in ribbons. This was going to… _hurt so good_ …

 

“I will be,” he said with more confidence than he felt. “I promise. I know what I’m doing.”

 

Wayne stared at him, reached into his jacket, and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “This is your draft contract for Saturday. Take it. Cross out _anything_ you’re uncertain about doing. I don’t want any soft limits bullshit here. You hesitate. Cross it out.”

 

Tim took the bundle of paper and nodded. “Okay.”

 

“I mean, Drake. I don’t care if you cross out penetrative sex. I need to know.” A hard look. “ _And_ I’m scheduling you in for a solo tomorrow.”

 

“Why?”

 

“You need to prove this to me first; sell me this bratty virgin.”

 

He wasn’t sure if it was a victory. He wasn’t sure if Wayne would walk back to his office and call the whole thing off. But he clung to the fragile fact that, for now at least, he hadn’t been shut down. If anything, this impromptu solo felt like a test. If he could prove he could get the views, sell the role, then Bruce would go ahead with the show timetabled for the coming Saturday. But how could he do that? He wasn’t Big Dick Grayson. He couldn’t suck his own cock. All he could do was tug himself until he came. What was he going to do that was unique? Special? How was he going to use this solo to convince Bruce he knew what he was doing? That Timmy Drake really was a believable bratty virgin?


	14. Chapter 14

“Was it a lie?” He looked up and felt something hitch painfully in the back of his throat. Big Dick Grayson was leaning into the change room doorway looking at him with a small pleat between his brows. He wore second-skin latex pants and no shirt. A ball gag hung around his neck and handcuffs swung form his belt. A near invisible sheen of makeup subtly changed the shape of his face. Nothing like the casual dog walker he had seen the week before and everything like the porn star he was used to. Better. So much better in the flesh. He could see every ruffled strand of hair, the sharp detail in his eyes, and the unambiguous shape of his manhood between his legs.

 

“What?” He tried to force levity into his voice.

 

“Rumour has it you’re pulling the V card and your V card is an _actual_ V card.”

 

“Who told you that?” Tim asked softly.

 

“Bruce. He’s kind of like a dad to me. A bossy, annoying, telling me who to fuck kind of dad. So… usual I guess.” The man advanced almost shyly into the room. “So… is it true?”

 

“Yeah,” Tim rasped. They were alone in the downstairs change rooms; all the other strippers were either on floor or working the pole. Tim was dressed but hadn’t been mingling with the guests or giving lap dances. Just stripping on stage. It had been relaxing to do the simple job; something he knew he was good at with minimal interaction with patrons. His recent publicity had paid off too; higher tips, larger crowds, and his name called across the floor. _It’s Timmy Drake! Timmy Drake! Timmy…_ but for the first time since he came to the manor he rewarded the attention with only fleeting smiles.

 

“Wow.” Grayson shook his head. “You’ve got some balls. Like some _serious_ balls. I was terrified when I first went into the dungeon. To do that without ever even having sex… wow. And with Jason too? _Wow_. I mean, he’s great but he’s no soft core and this is his big comeback, and first time on camera, so he’ll make it showy. A debut for you both I guess. In more ways than one.”

 

“You know my dom?” Tim muttered.

 

“Oh yeah,” he nodded, “we used to play together before he got himself fired.”

 

“What did h—?”

 

“The usual,” Dick said. “Disobeyed Bruce. Broke the rules.”

 

A long pause.

 

“It was… to me,” the man told him unhappily. “I was the sub. He, um, did things that weren’t in the contract. The way I figure he just forgot. He got a new contract every second day, most only slightly different, and it was hard to keep up with. He worked the second floor, you see. Did it for most of the week. Different shows, different subs. Nothing filmed. He trusted me to click out if he went too far. But I didn’t. I let him do it even though I knew it was against the rules.” He wasn’t looking at Tim anymore; his eyes focused slightly left of his face. “Stupid, huh? He got fired and I just got a warning.” A long pause. “I guess that’s what got me angry with you and Cassie, you know? She got sent home and you got off. I know it wasn’t your fault; she was out of line and, by the sounds of it, you were good to her. Real good. But, I guess it hit a little too close to home.”

 

“That’s—” Tim tried to intervene. To stop the pending apology he didn’t feel he deserved.

 

“I’m sorry,” Big Dick Grayson beat him to it. “I came off as a bit of an arse when we first met and it wasn’t your fault.” A deep breath. “If there is anything—”

 

“Could you teach me how to suck my own cock?”

 

Dick looked like he had just proposed marriage. “Huh?”

 

“Could you teach me—?”

 

“Why?” Eyes narrowed. “That’s my signature move.”

 

“W—Bruce says I have to do a solo to prove I can pull off a virgin bratty sub. I don’t know what to do. I can’t do anything special. Not for masturbation. Your first solo was the best the manor ever had. If I could…”

 

“Autofellatio isn’t a skill, Timmy. You can either do it or you can’t. It’s not as fun as it looks either. I practically have to dislocate my shoulder to reach.”

 

“But…”

 

“Bruce doesn’t want you to do something that’s already been done before. He wants you to sell the bratty virgin sub, right? So, do that.”

 

“How?”

 

The porn star looked at him for a long time. “You want my help?”

 

“Yes.”

 

He nodded. “Okay. I’m shooting an orgy or something with David Zavimbe on the top floor though. You prepared to give up tips for the night to come up and listen?”

 

Tim stared at him in shock. “I… but… I’m not allowed on the top floor.”

 

“Bruce won’t know. Don’t worry.”

 

“I… no… that’s against the rules.”

 

Eyebrows arched. “Wow. A real life rule follower. I can see why he likes you.” Dick looked at the clock on the wall. “Fine, what about the third floor then? This thing won’t start for another twenty tops and I don’t want to hang out here.”

 

Tim was shaking his head before he finished talking. “I-I’m not a resident. I can’t go on the third floor.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Bruce only just gave me access to the second floor and only a little bit for photo shoots, interviews, and stuff.”

 

Dick rolled his eyes. “Okay. But I live on the third floor and I’m allowed to have guests. I now formally invite you up to sit in my kitchen and talk. Happy?”

 

“But…”

 

“I’m going to turn around and walk out of here now. If you want to talk. Follow me.”

 

He needed help. Badly. But the only way he was going to get it was breaking the rules. He’d never broken the rules. Big Dick Grayson broke the rules. He did it a lot by the sounds of it. But Tim couldn’t do that. _He couldn’t_. Tim didn’t break rules… But Timmy Drake did. Timmy Drake _loved_ breaking rules. _Come on, Tim, live a little. You’re a virgin who’s never smoked and been drunk exactly once. You can run up some stairs. Come on. Just do it…_

 

It was a fit of madness that spurred his fumbling feet forward after the retreating shape of the porn star. To his surprise the man didn’t step out onto the ground floor. Instead he turned, ducked down an isolated hallway, and kicked an unseen switch behind a bookcase. A section of the elaborate wallpaper slid to the side revealing a narrow undressed stairway leading up through the walls.

 

“What?” Dick Grayson grinned at the look on his face. “How do you think we sneak around without being seen?”

 

“This house has _actual_ secret passage ways?” He said in wonder.

 

A light, happy, laugh. Not the kind that should belong to a porn star but somehow matched the man beside him perfectly. “Oh yeah. More than I know about if Bruce’s teleporting ability has anything to say about it.”

 

The hidden stairs were narrow and the ceiling unnervingly low but Dick moved confidently in the confined space. They stepped over wires, ducked under beams, and climbed through the muffled noise of laughter, screams, and music in a seemingly random zigzag of straights and steps. Just when Tim began to lose all orientation the man before him pushed through a seemingly ordinary panel of wood and stepped back out into the house.

 

Tim followed, stopped, and stared. It was the third floor. The forbidden floor. It also wasn’t what he expected.

 

The manor’s iconic red and black colour palate vanished as did the kinky ornate paintings and suits of armour bound in rope. Instead he stepped into a clean, crisp, and modern living area with uncovered windows overlooking the gardens. There were names on the cupboards in the kitchen, a massive TV screen standing before an even larger assembly of sofas, and a large old dog – Ace he remembered – sleeping in the corner. He suddenly felt ugly and underdressed in his leather pants and collar. A silly strange intruder.

 

Dick moved confidently despite his equally as out of place get up, took a carton of milk from the fridge, and drank. “The way I see it, about what we do here, is we’re all just method actors. It’s like a circus. The doms are the ringleaders and the subs the showmen.”

 

Willing up his courage Tim moved deeper into the living area and tried not to be seen looking around. “Yeah. I guess…”

 

“When Bruce first converted this place people said he was mad. There is no money in the sex industry for this kind of set up anymore, they said. Not since any old bozo with a camera became a DIY porn star. Who pays this kind of money for porn, or live performances, or even just strippers anymore?” He put the milk back. “The era of playboy manors are gone, they said.”

 

“But they were wrong.”

 

“Yes,” he nodded. “Because we’re not selling a house, or a strip show, or even BDSM. It’s atmosphere. It’s the belief that there actually is a place out there in the world where characters like Big Dick Grayson, Catwoman, and Timmy Drake live and get laid.” A pointed look. “If you go into that solo and suck your own cock, well, that’s hot but so what? Some teenager by their grandad’s pool in Nebraska just did the same thing and put it online. For free.”

 

“It worked for you.”

 

“Because I made it Big Dick Grayson. He’s big, flexible, and over the top. A switch so both giving and receiving worked well. _You_ need to sell Timmy Drake. You need to give people a reason to buy you and not the thousands of free idiots out there. Bruce will help you. He’ll give you quality video, great sets, awesome costumes. But the rest is up to you. This solo is the first page to a story. Who is Timmy Drake?”

 

“A bratty virgin submissive,” Tim answered easily.

 

“Yeah,” Dick smiled and leant on the kitchen counter between them. “A bratty virgin who likes precious things, who desperately wants to be dominated even if he won’t admit it, and who is a bit annoying.”

 

Offended. “You think he’s annoying?”

 

“Yes. Just a bit.” Dick admitted readily. “And that’s good. That’s what a bratty sub is. They’re sexy, fun, and annoying. A brat. A SAM is a brat taken too far. They undermine and make doms feel like shit, they point out the flaws in a set up, and ruin the mood. But a brat… well, think of those bratty characters in movies. They are annoying and even if you like them you kind of want someone to pin them down and teach them a lesson. That’s the satisfying part of bratty subs. They’re – you’re – the fulfilment of that fantasy. You snark and cheek but sooner or later some dominant is going to come along and show you what’s what.” A knowing smile. “Some time like this Saturday.”

 

Tim knew this. He’d heard it all before but never in such layman’s terms. He felt the other man draw a neat purposeful box around his character and quickly, confidently, pave out the path before him. A businessman talking about strategies. This will sell. This will not. This will work. This will not.

 

“For your solo,” Grayson ploughed on. “You have to sell that brat. On Saturday you have to sell the breaking of that brat. That doesn’t mean Timmy Drake won’t pick up some cheeky habits again especially if, later, he’s begging for attention but right now he’s a virgin; he’s _always_ gotten away with everything. He’s a loose fire hose, he’s wild, but secretly, he doesn’t want that anymore. He wants direction, purpose, _a master_.” A meaningful pause. “Secretly, he’s begging for someone to take him.”

 

“Okay,” he took a deep breath. _“Okay…”_ He didn’t know if he could do it but, had to admit, it was reassuring to talk about it. To lay it down in almost mathematical terms.

 

“Now, the virgin bit,” Dick said. “That’s the tricky bit. ‘Virgins’ are usually innocent subs not bratty ones. But, you know, I think you can make it work. Bruce hates the idea but I think you can do it. I watched some security footage of you dancing. You sell it there.”

 

“I do?”

 

A nod. “Yes. It’s subtle. You’re sexy, spicy, and everything else but you’re also a little bit secretive. Not in _what_ you do but _how_ you do it. People are going to look at that and, now that they’re looking, _see_ the virgin there. Which, in theory, should make the match up with Jason all the more intense and insane. A good place to really break the brat.” A long look. “But… you know… probably not a good place to lose your _actual_ virginity. It’ll be rough, it’ll hurt, and you’ve got to keep character.”

 

“You’re saying I should go out and get laid first?”

 

“Yes,” Dick told him. “I am actually. Nice, slow, with candlelight and cookies afterward.”

 

“Was that what you first time was like? With the Spanish teacher?”

 

Dick snorted. “My first time was with my high school girlfriend in the back of my car. I lasted almost ten seconds.” He lifted his eyebrow. “But, you know, now that I think about it my second time did actually have cookies. I still lasted only ten seconds but the cookies made it better.”

 

Tim smiled at the other man’s memory and looked down at his hands. “Sounds fun.”

 

“It was.” Dick shifted closer to him. “You know, funny thing, I have some cookies in the fridge right now.” A pause. “And, since they haven’t come running I assume this orgy or whatever is running late. If you need…?” He trailed off. The inflection towards a question hanging like spice in the air.

 

It took Tim an embarrassingly long time to connect the dots and figure out what the other man was talking about. Once he did he couldn’t believe it. Had Big Dick Grayson just…? Did he want…? Was he _serious?_ This had to be a misunderstanding. People, let alone virgin people, didn’t get propositioned by their favourite porn stars. That wasn’t something that happened in the real world. That wasn’t even something that should _seriously_ even happen in a BDSM fantasy manor.

 

He looked at the other man. At the shape of his lips cocked towards a suggestive smile, the perfect blue eyes, the washboard panels of lightly tanned abdominal muscles, the fingers toying with the handcuffs on his belt, the V snaking out from the low hem of his pant, and the obvious organ between his legs. _Was that a little bigger than it had been before?_ This was his go-to masturbatory fantasy since he hit puberty. Standing before him. Real as lava and ten times hotter.

 

“You…” he squeaked. “You mean it? You want to… with me?”

 

A roll of shoulders. Fluid, flexible. The kind of movement that screamed Big Dick Grayson. “I wouldn’t be in this this business if I wasn’t sex-mad. Plus, this is kind of a turn on for me. I’ve never slept with a real virgin before. Let alone one as stunning as you. I think I would be good at it. Whatever you need. Slow. Non-kinky. I last longer than ten seconds now.” A slow leisurely smile. “And I sort of have a thing for tattoos and yours is… well… the way you’ve always got some scrap of clothing over some part of it whenever you dance. That does things to a man, you know.”

 

_Breathtakingly sexy. Every inch of him. And coming onto him strong._

 

Tim’s eyes snaked down the other man’s body one more time and _oh he’s_ definitely _bigger down there now._ That knowledge brought a flush of burning colour to his cheeks. Big Dick Grayson was getting hard for him. Standing before him, looking at him, and getting hard. _God…_

 

The porn star approached, having seen something in his face, and cupped his cheek in his hand. In a seductive whisper. “It’ll be better than doing it in the dungeon with Jay. _Much_ better. I promise.”

 

“I…”

 

He kissed him.

 

Big Dick Grayson kissed him.

 

Hot lips against his, the dry taste of makeup, and a salty sweet touch of tongue. All of it hitting him like bullets from an automatic gun; too fast to respond to. Too fast to comprehend before the next element assaulted his awareness. The smell of hairspray, the feel of latex, and the wall he was backed into. _More._ Warm palm stoking his cheek, firm body pushed against, and an undeniable hardness jutting into his hip. _Too much…_ Big Dick Grayson’s tongue inside his mouth. Exploring new territory, opening his mouth, and filling him with sexual promise. Coaxing. _Hungry._

 

_Too much!_

 

He turned his head and gasped for air.

 

Dick forged a path of kisses down his neck.

 

“I…” His mind was a dizzying blur of shock, need, and _that man_. Perfect. He was perfect… but all the reasons for preserving his virginity rose up in him like spiny seaweed with the tide. Savage, wild, and greedy. The selfish need to be able to experience – _really_ experience – the porn fantasy; to lose his virginity with his character, in the dungeon, to a faceless dom. As _Timmy Drake_ ; a version of himself with everything fun, sexy, and taboo turned up to eleven. “I think…” But wasn’t this also a fantasy? Better than he could have dared dream? Big Dick Grayson _actually_ offering himself?

 

The twin desires met inside him. Two waves crashing into each other. An epic battle. _A choice._

 

A fork in the road between two impossible wet dreams.

 

Big Dick Grayson or Timmy Drake.

 

“I-I think…”


	15. Chapter 15

 

It seemed so cliché.

 

Gold.

 

Gold for a dragon.

 

But, Tim had to admit, it was a beautiful set. Put together in one of the rooms on the second floor and overlooked by a director, a camera, and a small gathering of stand-up studio lights gazing down through narrow barn doors. For his part Tim was lying belly down on the glittering pile of treasure, a brand new red collar around his neck, and a simple scarlet thong slung lazily low on his hips.

 

This was his solo. This was his test. This was how he needed to prove to Bruce he could sell the bratty virgin submissive named Timmy Drake. The boy with the dragon tattoo.

 

The director. “Sound.”

 

“Speeding,” the boom swinger responded.

 

“Roll camera.”

 

“Rolling,” the camera woman muttered.

 

“Slate.”

 

A clapper board appeared. “Timmy Drake solo. Shot one. Take one.”

 

“Mark it.”

 

It clapped closed.

 

“And…” the man looked at him. “Action… when you’re ready.”

 

He licked his lips, wiped his palms on his thighs, and wrestled back his nervousness to welcome the Timmy Drake persona. It bloomed from the back of his brain and washed over him like an orgasm. _Who is Timmy Drake?_ Dick’s words registered piece by piece as he fell into character. _A bratty virgin who likes precious things._ He arched in his gold pile, grinning with cheeky glee at the way it shone and shifted under his weight. _Who desperately wants to be dominated even if he won’t admit it._ He rolled his hips and edged slightly onto his knees; ‘subconsciously’ lifting his arse and spreading his legs. _And who is a bit annoying._ He pretended to notice the camera for the first time, gazed down the barrel, and let his smile grow crooked, teasing, and finely edged with a dusting of haughty swagger. _You think you can take me, huh?_

 

The director’s lips twitched towards a rueful smile.

 

The camera – an imposing thing with a zoom lens and the word RED printed across the side – was attached to its handler with an easy rig and moved to keep the scene vibrant and faced paced. The video wasn’t going to be long. Bruce told him ten minutes was his rough go to time. Less than that people would be unsatisfied. More they would get bored. Just a small sharp snippet of Timmy Drake to prove the character to his boss and whet the appetites of the online audience.

 

Still, Tim toyed and lolled playfully on his treasure horde for a while longer. Arched, undulated, and gyrated until the friction of rubbing against his golden stash finally brought him to aching erection. He both hated and loved how easy it was for him to get hard. The onlookers, the attention, and the knowledge that this would be seen by a potentially huge online audience was the best aphrodisiac he could ask for. But it did little to smother his still twitching nerves.

 

He released himself; keeping the red thong on below his cock and across the shape of the tattoo. _That does things to a man, you know._ With a groan he began to thrust bare against the mess of coins beneath him. It wasn’t a wholly pleasant sensation but the tug and drag stung with haphazard points of pleasure and the film crew’s cheeks were notably redder than before. Good. That meant he looked good. He looked _needy_ ; thrusting with desperate whines but also keeping the thong around his thighs; slightly secretive and shy. Not touching himself. Not exploring. Not until, seemingly with an uncontrollable need for relief he reached around and slipped a finger into his hole.

 

Just one.

 

Anymore and he feared Bruce would tell him he wasn’t buying the virgin sideline. So, he penetrated himself with just one finger – a dry stretch – and moaned as if that filled him. In truth it came damn near close. He was nervous, he was _tight_ , and he was dry. The intrusion of his finger was a strange and erotic displacement that awoke a fire in his belly and compelled him to clench around and rock back into its presence.

 

Soon the sounds coming out of his mouth weren’t performed or rehearsed, the way he scrambled and slipped on the coins entirely earnest, and the shudder that went through him impossible to fake. He built on what his body gave him. Made it better. Made it _Timmy Drake_. Then, with a messy thrust against the coins and a clumsy press of finger, he came with a suddenness and a strength that shocked him.

 

Tim felt the scrape as he fell against the coins, the sticky hot spray of his own semen splashing up against his chest, and his own voice vibrating in his throat. His left thigh twitched embarrassingly but, right then, he didn’t have either the energy or control enough over his body to hide it or the will to care. _God that was…_

 

Was that ten minutes?

 

He hauled himself doggedly out of his post orgasm stupor, rolled onto his back, and flinched violently away as he realised how much closer the camera was than before. The director saw the action and moved to talk; to reassure him and end the scene. Before he could Tim smirked, kicked a few coins dismissively towards the lens, and snapped his thong back up; like a dragon guarding its most precious treasure.

 

He hoped it didn’t look like a pathetic or meaningless gesture smattered and smeared in an obscene amount of his own come.

 

“Cut. That’s a…” the director audibly swallowed. “I think we can call that a one take wonder.”

 

Tim let Timmy’s look fall away as the red light vanished and meekly asked for help up off the shifting pile of ancient coinage. The camera operator almost dropped the equipment for the chance to comply. He fumbled with the supplied box of tissues, found a thin dressing gown to throw over his suddenly naked feeling shoulders, and slunk out of the room to meet Bruce standing by a monitor now showing playback of the scene.

 

He blushed. “W-was it okay?”

 

The man gave him a look.

 

“I mean… did I convince you? On the bratty virgin thing.”

 

“Do you have the contract?”

 

With a surge of relief and a sudden wave of excited nervousness he fished in his bag and produced the contract for Saturday night. He also took the opportunity to submit his two clean STI panels with a shaking fist.

 

He’d won. Bruce would let him perform. _He’d sold it_. The thought surged with passionate victory and also stood stark and terrified in his brain.

 

He was doing this.

 

This was happening.

 

In less than a week’s time.

 

“You haven’t crossed out much,” Bruce commented as he flicked through the contract.

 

“No. I’m r-really actually pretty okay with it and I want the dom – Jason – to have room to be creative.”

 

The man snapped the contract closed. “Are you still a virgin?”

 

The question struck him like a sharp slap across the face. His heart was still hammering in his chest, hands felt heavy and awkward, and mouth dry. He was coming down from his orgasm, he was terrified of what Saturday night would bring, but he was also the most excited he had ever been in his life. The muddle of emotions left him feeling sick, weak, and wretched as he bobbed his head in response. “Y-yeah.”

 

“Why?”

 

He frowned. “Why would I have lost it?”

 

“You have had amble opportunity to lose it,” Bruce said simply.

 

He twitched. “Do you and Dick talk about everything?”

 

The man’s eyes flashed as he received the new information. “Dick?”

 

“I…” Tim realised he’d given the other man away. “I mean… he offered but I…” he swallowed and looked at his feet. “I said no.”

 

When he looked up again Bruce was shaking his head.

 

“You think I’m mad, don’t you?”

 

A strange expression. Not a wolf eyeing a lamb or a dark businesslike stare. Earnest. Human. Confused. “In all honesty; I don’t know what to think of you anymore, Drake.” He tucked the modified contract into his suit. “I’ll send you the final copy tonight. Send it back signed. Come in on Saturday night to strip. At midnight Todd will come to get you.”


	16. Chapter 16

Tim lay on his bed in a huge amount of clothing – trying to banish the nervous naked feeling creeping in the back of his mind – and watched the view counter on his solo video click slowly but steadily upward. Occasionally someone was bold enough to leave a comment, each one giving him a jolt of simple happiness.

 

_So fucking hot._

_I can’t believe I haven’t heard of this Timmy Drake before._

_This sub needs to learn his place._

_I got a lap dance from him! Tattoo is even better uncovered. ;-)_

_Didn’t even touch his dick. Wants to get fucked so bad._

_He’s such a BRAT!!! I bet a taste of my THICK COCK would fix him!!!_

_I love how tight he is._

_Quiero follarte a ese chico._

_Team Timmy Drake. Make it a thing._

_Wayne Manor sure does find ‘em!_

_I want a pet dragon._

_I saw Timmy Drake get punished by Mistress Kane. I suppose he needs someone a bit tougher to bring him into line. Catwoman? She loves putting down insubordinate subs._

_He said he was a virgin in interview! OMG! GOT to be true. So tight!_

_I love this (came so hard) when he made that noise at 8:11 but he kind of annoys me a bit._

_Rumour has it Timmy Drake’s caught someone’s attention._

 

Tim left the page open and clicked back home in another tab. The Wayne Manor: BDSM Playhouse website had recently undergone a renovation and was brimming with new pages, ways to search, as well as a lot of never seen before footage. There were links to a number of other websites the Wayne Manor cast had stared in – Horny Teen Titans, Paradise Island, and The XXX League – as well as news on far reaching plans to set up Wayne Manor: BDSM Playhouse Incorporated; a scheme to convert or build mansions all around the world and turn them into fully fledged arms of the franchise.

 

It was an ambitious plan and suggested Bruce really was making money off the set up. The strip joint and bars on the bottom floor, the check-in experience offered by the kennels and stables, the classes; small videos and performances on the second floor, the big performances in the dungeon, and the working porn studio on the top floor. A mess of different businesses all mashed tantalising into one; an impossible erotic idea come to life and fuelled by the savage primal desire for it to be real.

 

A fantasy made flesh.

 

And now he was part of it. Small. Simple. But there.

 

In that moment he didn’t care if Bruce was right; he didn’t care if his professed virginity made him a one trick pony or if he would disappear from the patron’s eye once it was taken from him. None of that mattered because, for a moment, he would be that estranged unruly fantasy. He would _be_ Wayne Manor and everything it stood for. As truly terrifying as the prospect of the coming show was there was nothing else he would rather be doing on Saturday night.

 

He clicked on the schedule page and watched an ad pop up. It was a rapid fire of video clips. A matching set of human ponies pulled a carriage, Catwoman rode a pyramid of sub males in gimp masks, Miss Brown shrieked as she was whipped with a riding crop, a stripper turned upside down on her pole, Big Dick Grayson received a pearl necklace, Harley’s breasts bounced as she rode Ivy’s fingers, two puppies humped, a forced feminization crawled towards a dominatrix, a suspending sub wriggled on stage, guests tasted the berries and cream, open legs and undulating hips with a dragon ta—but the image was gone as fast as all the others to finally settle on Wayne playing the Master of the House overlooking it all from a shadowy throne like a primal force of nature; dark, unstoppable, _insatiable_.

 

The ad vanished as quickly as it arrived leaving an odd tingling in Tim’s groin and the schedule in its place. Four shows on the second floor on Wednesday that night. The dungeon was closed but the top floor had a ‘be entertained by the stars’ with Big Dick Grayson and returning Police Woman Barbara. Thursday was dominated by a public puppy training ‘bring your puppies’ with a class on ‘the ins and outs of pegging’. Friday, as usual, was large. All bars and stages open on the bottom floor from midday till five am, six shows on the second floor, and the chance to watch the independent porno _Catboys in Trouble Part Three_ filming upstairs. Then, on Saturday, the dungeon was blocked out in foreboding black for a special male on male show. A live event online and able to be seen in person by black card holders; places limited. Explicit with potential heavy BDSM. Viewer discretion advised.

 

The comments were rife with speculation as to who the players were. It seemed like every gay and bisexual male working at the manor had been pointed out. Most seemed to think it would involve Big Dick Grayson in his new ongoing story arc with Bat Wing but there was a definite undercurrent of interest in the possibility of a rumoured new dominant and the sudden showcase of Timmy Drake.

 

The new dominant.

 

The name on the contact was Jason Todd and in brackets beside it where the porn star alias sat were two words; Red Hood. Tim tried not to contemplate what that could mean. None of the dominant’s previous works were filmed, and he’d been fired before for misconduct. It was a stilling line up of fleeting information. Barely anything to go off. But, he told himself, that was good. _Better_. Tim refused to even look at the photos of his assigned dom so he wouldn’t see him coming for him through the crowd on Saturday. Let that night be real. Let it be true. Every moment of it that could be. Every _second_.

 

The other tab flashed and he clicked back to his solo video.

 

A new comment.

 

_I’m looking forward to Saturday. – RH_


	17. Chapter 17

Saturday.

 

He couldn’t sleep all day, could barely stomach any food, and dropped a coffee mug when someone knocked on the door to deliver a parcel; the new Spiderman socks he ordered. He added them to the excess clothes he wore as he padded around his apartment, swept up the shattered pieces of the cup, and watched the sun go down.

 

_I’m looking forward to Saturday. – RH_

 

The comment circled around in his head; as persistent as it had been for days. The mere idea of it sent stray stings of raging frightened excitement to the mess of knots and butterflies at war in his stomach and drew him again and again back to the comment section in that video to gaze at those five words and their cryptic signature like a moth to the flame. _His dominant_. The idea was as simply infatuating as it was intriguing. What did the man have planned for tonight? Would he be able to take it? What would losing his virginity be like?

 

_I’m looking forward to Saturday. – RH_

 

Was it even Red Hood who had left that message?

 

He tried once again to block the thought from his mind and, within the hour, caught himself dwelling on it again. It, caught in a net of other jumbled thoughts, stayed with him as he slowly undressed, carefully groomed himself one last time, and clambered into his car to drive to the manor half an hour earlier than usual.

 

When he arrived everything seemed offensively normal. The building looked the same, as did the gardens, and even the secretive servants entrance with the single bouncer and an employee smoking outside before the night began. He wasn’t in the mood for another Mike/Mark/whatever and ignored the man’s piercing look as went to work. Inside the early strippers were getting dressed at a leisurely pace and a few smiled at him as he picked his way toward his makeup table. Once he sat down, however, Leslie appeared with a small stack of clothing.

 

“This is what you’re wearing tonight. Be down to the boots, collar, and underwear by midnight. Hood said he didn’t want to have to waste too much time stripping you.”

 

“Oh…” it looked like his usual garb but of a higher quality, the stitching on the shirt firm enough he knew it wouldn’t be something he could rip off, and the pants studded with the twisting shape of a dragon on the right thigh. He knew without even trying them on they would fit perfectly.

 

“I’m doing your makeup too.”

 

“I thought I was good at the makeup,” he protested weakly. More out of habit than any desire to attempt to force his shaking hands to gussy himself up.

 

“You are,” she told him as she dropped a massive bag onto the table before him. “But we’re using the expensive sweat-proof, smear-proof, damn-near-explosion-proof products tonight. And no glitter.”

 

“No glitter?”

 

“No glitter,” she confirmed.

 

The makeup was deftly applied and came from black containers that promised clean, safe, and durable beauty. She didn’t apply as much as usual; nothing that would appear too gaudy or fake under blazing studio lights. Despite it she managed to somehow turn him into an erotic and angled creature with a seductive but stubborn line to his glistening lips, clear cut cheekbones, and fierce, almost smoky, eyes.

 

She left him alone to dress and nodded approvingly when he had.

 

The night after that was a blur. He took the clothes off and put them on again every time he worked the pole and during his lap dances; to which there were over half a dozen. Rumour of that night’s show and his role in it had near filled the club with gay men and women who liked watching them. Tips were huge, stray touches a near constant indiscretion, and one man gave him a shocking lump of money to eat berries from his fingers. He greedily complied, nipped playfully at his skin, and wriggled his brows in light defiant challenge.

 

“You _are_ wilful, aren’t you?”

 

“Of course not, _sir_ ,” he breathed – spoken with none of the deference a sub should have – stole a strawberry, and swaggered away with a loud laugh. Swaggered into a near collision with Ra’s al Ghul.

 

“Little dragon,” the man named him with a predatory look.

 

“Ras,” he responded lightly and looked at the clock. It was still an hour before midnight. He had plenty of time. “Do you want a dance?”

 

“Are you going downstairs tonight?”

 

The question was the most direct he had received from the crowding spectators all night and immediately drew eyes to him. A score of patrons lingering on the bottom floor in hopes of seeing him get dragged down into the cave.

 

“Why would you ask that?”

 

“The dungeon has been booked.” A steady look.

 

Tim rolled his eyes. “I never know what those doms do. Why? Do you think another master is going to try and tame me?” He let his grin grow crooked. “Mm. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

 

“I persuaded the Master of the House to return one, Red Hood, into the employ of this house,” Ra’s said quickly before he could walk away. “That wouldn’t have anything to do with this, would it?” There was a shine in his eyes. The victorious glitter of a man who knew he had figured out more than he was meant to. Or, perhaps, a man who got a primal _kick_ out of the idea that – while he couldn’t fuck him – he could organise someone else to. “You know who the Red Hood is, don’t you, little dragon?”

 

 _The_ Red Hood? Since when did he become _the_ Red Hood? How did someone because _the_ anything? “I don’t even know what he looks like,” Tim answered honestly.

 

“Evidently,” Ra’s said with an almost sinister sliver of amusement

 

“Eviden…?” Tim’s voice failed as his brain uncovered the suggestion in those words. His eyes flicked around to the crowd of people watching. All dark eyed, all hungry, all male. Was one of them his dominant? The man who would take his virginity tonight? Had he unwittingly given the man a lap dance, poured his drink, or _eaten berries out of his hand_? Tim’s eyes snaked to the berry-man watching on with dark cutting desire.

 

_I’m looking forward to Saturday. – RH_

 

Was that him? He was attractive, suit showed off a muscular build, and he was absently stroking his tie. His _red_ tie… but, no. He was drinking. Performers weren’t allowed to drink before a show. But didn’t this guy – Jason Todd _Red Hood_ – get fired for breaking the rules? Was it...? No. Ra’s was bluffing. He had an hour left. Red Hood wouldn’t be here. Not yet.

 

“You’re so sexy when you’re trying to scare me,” he told Ra’s instead, dropped a heavy wink, and moved across the room.

 

The people didn’t quite shift out of his way, forcing him to wriggle between them, touch them; all as they watched, requested favours with flourishes of money, and spoke in low voices among each other. Tim’s eyes couldn’t help but dance around; analysing all the people and trying to pick out any porn stars lingering in the crowd. There was an imposing black man in a massive leather harness, a tall man with red hair, and another man being served a bottle of non-alcoholic wine. Red Hood could be any of them or none of them. He could be the man touching his arse now and earning a snarky rebuttal, or the one subtly stroking his impressive erection through is pants, or the one asking for a lap dance.

 

Half an hour later he was significantly richer but still eyeing the patrons with tight nervousness. Ra’s wouldn’t really bluff would he? Yes. No. Maybe…? It didn’t matter! He was getting to him. He was _letting Ra’s_ get to him. Now was not the time to lose game. He had one more strip on the pole to do before he left himself in the state of dress as requested by his unknown dominant. After that it wouldn’t be long before the clock struck the fateful midnight.

 

Tim took a deep breath, vanished backstage to stash his money, and tried to prep himself up for one more dance. The other strippers stayed well out of his path and some sent withering looks; having caught on through the night that there was something special happening for him. He didn’t care. He had a lot bigger things that his downstairs popularity to worry about just then.

 

He stepped through the curtain.

 

The lights had gone red on the runway stage before him, the clientele was crowding close, and the pole stood like it always did; an ally before him. Simple, straight, strong. Without thinking about it he rolled a lazy cartwheel and wrapped his legs around the pole – back of the knees clasped around the bar – in a mirror image of his first strip on this pole before Bruce Wayne. Just like then his shirt came off and was thrown haphazardly out to the audience causing a brief scuffle broken up by a bouncer. Arching upside down off the pole he winked at a blushing woman, stole the olive from someone’s martini, and opened his legs to rip off his pants with an extravagant flourish. There was a murmur at the partial reveal of his tattoo and a collective intake of breath as he spun off the pole, landed, and dropped to his knees to accept a tip from a man with a lazy eye.

 

No one that could be Jason Todd. No one male who might have makeup on with clothes that belonged on a porn set.

 

That eliminated a frightening amount of his patrons.

 

He bit the bullet and arched forward onto all fours – throwing his head back – so some of the more persistent could slip money under his collar. He saw a woman with messy black hair, a man behind an imposing moustache, and… Big Dick Grayson? He blinked, unsure if he was really seeing the man or not.

 

Dick’s smile was layered as he leant forward and playfully slotted some money behind Tim’s ear. “Good luck,” he breathed and then disappeared back into the crowd, drawing a few startled stares, but largely ignored. Tim had almost expected Big Dick Grayson to be bitter next time he saw him; morbid about being denied the opportunity to take Tim’s virginity. _Especially_ after he had given Tim the greatest kiss of his life: and he _had_ kissed before. But there had been nothing resentful in that look or the weight of the money resting on the shell of his ear.

 

It felt like a burden he didn’t even know he was carrying suddenly lifted him leaving all his nervousness, persona, and raw unchastened excitement bloom out of him in an erotic rush.

 

A woman slipped money into his boot for the chance to use his golden chain. He allowed it, snapped his teeth cheekily at her as she clipped it to his collar, and used the tether in his ongoing dance. When she tugged too hard he snapped it back and laughed. Someone else took it and he made a show of playing with them before the chain was passed on through the crowd. No one was too rough so he allowed it and let himself get lost in the open legs that would snap secretively closed, the cheeky smiles, and everything _Timmy Drake_.

 

Midnight stuck with a low hollow _dong!_ from the grandfather clock.

 

He heard the ominous chime pulsate through his skull and froze mid move. _He shouldn’t still be on stage!_

 

_Dong!_

 

He hastily finished his move, gathered up his chain, and stepped off the platform.

 

_Dong!_

 

A woman wrapped her arms around him in a drunken hug.

 

_Dong!_

 

“I-I never mix business and…” He wriggled out of her arms and fell into the body of a grinning potbellied regular.

 

_Dong!_

 

“S-sorry sexy but I’m _parched_ …” fell out of his personal space and into someone else’s.

 

_Dong!_

 

“Mm. You’re beautiful but alas…”

 

_Dong!_

 

He caught sight of Ra’s smiling knowingly at him as he tried to smother the crowd in playful flirtation and wriggle out of it into the main body of the room. _Where he should be._

_Dong!_

 

Just as he reached the lip of the crowd someone snagged the trailing hem of his chain.

 

_Dong!_

 

The chain pulled taunt dragging him against a tall firm body. “Hey, I’m sorry big boy, no touch…”

 

_Dong!_

Voice low, husky, and laced with the light bitter sweet scent of tobacco smoke. “I’ve been looking forward to this.”

_Dong!_

 

Tim felt himself stiffen with a surge of frantic undefinable emotion as his arms were pulled forcefully behind his back.

_Dong!_

 

Oh…


	18. Chapter 18

Saturday.

 

Somehow still the day he broke his second favourite coffee mug and received his Spiderman socks. Somehow still on the same planet he had been on as he watched the sun go down and willed away an errant erection. Somehow still in the same body he’d been in when he drove to the manor and walked by the man smoking outside. The man who was probably out there waiting for him.

 

The man now hauling him down the steps in black leather pants, a bare chest under his stern jacket, and a look in his eye that _could not_ be a performance.

 

He wasn’t the berry-man, or someone he gave a lap dance to, but he had seen him in the crowd. Eying him with the same simple predatory hunger as everyone else. Oblivious to who he was, Tim had winked at him but slipped with a haughty look from his grasp when he touched him. Just like he had walked by him outside. Now, he thought with a flurry of indescribable feeling, he was going to pay for that.

 

They rounded one last corner and disappeared from the guest’s line of sight. He thought Jason would relent his brutal drag. He didn’t. Tim staggered along through the narrow corridor after the dominant, arms bound behind his back; being led by the thin link golden chain still attached to his collar. _Out of sight of the guests._

 

 _Oh God… oh yes… this guy was the real deal… oh fuck… this is the fantasy… oh_ fuck!

 

Jason smirked at him as if reading his mind and pulled him around one more turn in the hall before they stepped into the cave; behind the scenes.

 

Monitors on the wall showed massive seats being filled by black card patrons, four massive cameras were being wheeled out a big door which _must_ lead to the main body of the dungeon, and – standing in a line – Bruce, Alfred, and Dick.

 

“What the hell is he doing here?” Jason snarled and jerked his chin towards the other performer as Alfred stepped forward and began to pluck all the remaining money off Tim’s scant clothing.

 

“I…” Dick shrugged. “I’m just… nothing much is happening up top and…”

 

“This will be kept safe for you, sir,” the butler ensured Tim as he slipped the money into a stern yellow envelope marked with his real name in fluid cursive and added a check to pay for his up and coming performance.

 

“T-thanks.”

 

“I’m giving Tim the option to change partners,” Bruce said.

 

“ _What?!_ ” Jason and he said at once.

 

“You can’t take this away from me now,” the dominant snarled.

 

Tim overlapped the words with his own. “I know what I’m doing. Why won’t you believe me? You said our characters matched up perfectly.”

 

“We can match Drake up with Grayson too,” Bruce rumbled.

 

“Yeah,” Dick smiled uncertainly. “I’m bisexual switch with the ‘personality’ trait flexible. Think of me like a little black dress. I go with anything.” His smiled vanished. “But, you know, because this is your first time and you might be getting cold fee—”

 

“I can handle—!” Jason began.

 

“No!” The voice that came out of him didn’t sound like his own.

 

When Bruce had first suggested putting a dom over him Dick Grayson would have been his first and only choice. He remembered the pang of remorse when he realised it wasn’t going to be his teenage porn star crush mounting him in the rock walls of the dungeon. But now something inside him was violently revoting against the idea. Against the compromise, against the break of atmosphere, against the idea of Big Dick Grayson walking him into that dungeon. It didn’t fit. Not the way _this_ fit. Some part of him still wanted it but a bigger part knew it wasn’t what he needed and it would kill Timmy Drake. His character would not survive being undermined like this. Not in his intrinsic turning point.

 

“Don’t take me out of this,” he rasped. “Not now. Don’t… don’t do this to me.”

 

Dick looked torn and Jason honestly surprised as he digested and discovered the meaning of the words. Bruce was looking right into his eyes, reading something there, and… understanding. Understanding the fit, the fantasy, _the need_.

 

“Safe word,” he said.

 

Tim clicked the fingers twice behind his back.

 

“How long is the show?”

 

“No time limit. It runs as long as it plays.”

 

“You can sell it?”

 

In a voice stronger than he felt. “I _am_ it.”

 

A crisp nod. “And are you sure you want to do this?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Wayne turned away from him, satisfied with the answers his fast paced interrogation brought him. Looked at Jason.

 

“You can handle this?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You know the limits?”

 

The man straightened. “Yeah.” Not that Tim had imposed much. Almost everything was on the board. _He could do almost anything to him._

 

“Okay,” Bruce accepted this. “ _Communicate_ out there.”

 

It was the green light. Simple. Strong. _This is happening._

 

Tim sucked in a deep breath and felt the irresistible tug at his collar as Jason twisted the links around the palm of his hand and pulled him by the party of three. They went down the dark corridor, Tim felt the air get colder, and then Jason spoke. “Thanks kid. I know Big Prick is everyone’s favourite wank but… fuck it. Thanks. This means a lot.”

 

“I… you’re…”

 

“Shut up.”

 

They stepped out into the blinding blaze of studio lights. Once his eyes adjusted he blinked out at the dungeon he had seen online. Natural stone walls, an intimidating line of St. Andrew’s Crosses, and a large open area already set up with a confusing array of equipment.

 

 _They were doing this…_ now.

 

Tim braced his feet and yanked back against the chain; eyes flicking over the things Ja—Red Hood (because it was Red Hood in here) had brought to the front of the dungeon. Beyond the setup he could see the moving shape of the cameras; all live and actively coordinated by a director in an unseen multicam hub. The shadowy mass beyond shifted in only the way an audience could.

 

Hood looked over his shoulder, saw how he resisted him, and expertly snapped the chain so it whipped painfully back against Tim’s chest before pulling taught again. “Come here.”

 

He gasped in pain and staggered forward a step before leaning against the chain again. “I don’t even know who you are and you think you can…?!”

 

Another snap of chain. Hard. Merciless. “ _Come here_.”

 

He could have yelled no, made a show of struggling, or insulted the dominant. But that would mean ruining the careful _annoying_ beauty of Timmy Drake’s bratty but submissive nature and undermining the performance.

 

He tried for one of Timmy Drake’s flirty smiles instead. Crooked with an edge of raw trembling uncertainty. He was out of his element. He was in the domain of a dominant. But he was still the sassy submissive from upstairs. “But, you know, whoever you are I don’t think we _need_ all this.”

 

His lips twitched. “Don’t you?” A hard tug on the chain pulled Tim further forward. “I’ve been watching you, Drake. Flaunting yourself, begging for attention, talking back.” He reeled him in another pace.

 

“I would _never_ talk back,” he snarked. “ _Sir_.” Stumbled forward another step. He knew his shaking would be obvious to the audience, knew the heat in his cheeks meant a nervous spike of colour, and knew his smile looked like what it was; a fleeting defence against the mingled fear and _need_ coursing through him. _Oh fuck… oh yes… oh fuck…_

 

Hood pulled him forward once last step and grabbed him directly by the collar. “When I tell you to _come_ you _come_.” Dragged him unapologetically towards the play area. He saw a series of buckets, a padded black sawhorse, and a rack of whips, floggers, and riding crops.

 

“W-wait!”

 

“No.”

 

He could see Hood’s arm and shoulder. Large, muscular, and paving the way to impossibly black eyes. Hair dark but for a single stark white lock. Face bearing the same savage unchecked aggressive beauty of a wild wolf. “Is this… _training_ or…?” Tim struggled to say.

 

“This is me turning a back-talking virgin _brat_ into my good little _whore_.”

 

He let the shock, fear, and lust at that statement show on his face. “But…” he was pushed face first against a stern black whipping post. “Wait! Mr Wayne never said you could…!”

 

Hood pushed up behind him, crushed him between the post and his body, and hissed in his ear as he worked to strap him in position. “You’re _mine_ , dragon boy. You know it. You _want_ it. You _need_ it. You’ve been _begging_ for it for months. Desperate little _slut_.” One leg strapped to the ground. “Wayne isn’t going to come and save you. Wayne doesn’t want disobedient submissives who don’t know their place. _Wayne doesn’t want you_.” Other leg locked in leaving him forced into an uncomfortably open stance. “He isn’t going to stop me from taking your _precious treasure_. Isn’t going to stop me making you _mine_. From fucking that tight little body until you can’t feel anything but me.” Released his hands from behind his back only to fasten them together over his head.

 

Tim hissed through his teeth feeling the stretch of muscle as he was forced to edge up slightly on his toes. This wasn’t what Cass Kane did to him. He wasn’t on the verge of being suspended but he _was_ being put on display.  Arms high above his head, muscles forced taunt, and legs wide. The single pole of the torture post was against his chest and cheek. An evil twin sister of the pole upstairs.

 

He twisted to look at the dominant over his shoulder – eye contact; a direct challenge – and tested his new bonds hard enough that the snap and creak of leather was audible throughout the cave.

 

Hood tangled a fist in Tim’s hair and jerked his gaze back to the faceless dark abyss of the audience. “I heard about you and Kane,” he sneered. “She was too soft on you. Let you get away with things. _Rewarded_ you for submitting instead of expected it.”

 

A deadly soft rasp. “She had me screaming by now.” It was a dangerous choice of words. Something crueller, meaner, and reeking of smart arsed masochism. He regretted it as soon as he’d said it. It was on the _verge_ of being out of character and had the potential to undermine the dom he was working with. But it was too late. The hand in his hair tightened painfully and another clenched too tight around his hip before ripping off his underwear along breakable seams. Suddenly naked except for his boots and collar he twitched, shivered, and watched as Hood marched across the room, picked up a bucket as if it weighed a lot, and strode back to throw the content over him.

 

A burning flood of sharp cold pain. _GOD!_ He heard himself cry out and thrash uselessly against his bonds.

 

“You want to scream, huh?” Somehow Hood already had another bucket and was throwing it over him.

 

Another shock of icy agony. Another pitching shout.

 

“Good. I want to hear you scream.”

 

By the time Tim had opened his eyes again Hood had a third bucket and was reaching into it and drawing out a handful of… ice? He was throwing buckets of ice over him? His mind flew to his contract. At the bottom of the second page a number of activities branched off from the title temperature play. Ice was among them. But how could ice feel like _that?_

 

Hood pressed the frozen water against Tim’s left nipple. Held it.

 

The cold was a searing presence getting colder sharper and he couldn’t escape it no matter how he pulled against the leather straps holding his wrists and calves. Burning. Building. Overwhelming terrifyingly fast. “I… ah…. I’m sor—didn’t mean… _Ah_!”

 

A cruel twist of lip. “You scream easy, dragon boy.” Removed the handful of ice from his chest and slowly, deliberately, ran it over the snaking shape of his tattoo.

 

It was a burning agony. Held firm against him so he couldn’t flinch away no matter how much he writhed and bucked. The Red Hood made sure to follow the entire length of the dragon. From the tip of its tail on his abs, over the point of his hip, and down to the inside of his thigh. He was panting and shivering within the confines of his bindings by the time the other man quickly cupped his balls in the watery remains of the ice; issuing one last pained heave out of him before he overturned the rest of the bucket above Tim’s head.

 

He was dripping wet, glacial water was running into his boots, chunks of ice still falling out of his hair and slipping from his shoulders. The cool breath of an unseen air conditioner was almost as brutal as the buckets had been and invoked a shiver violent enough to rattle his teeth. Part of his brain managed to drag his eyes around the corners of the stage and count the remaining buckets. Seven. No, eight. But the eighth bucket looked different and sat apart from the others. What did that mean? It didn’t matter. Only the ice buckets mattered. There were seven more ice buckets. _God…_

 

Hood saw the direction of his gaze. “Beg for it, dragon boy.”

 

He looked at the dom.

 

“Beg for more.”

 

Slowly he moved his head from side to side.

 

Red Hood didn’t hesitate, didn’t give a moment to show any emotion, he just picked up another ice bucket and a simple riding crop.

 

Tim tried to watch him, tried to keep a defiant stare, but he was shivering and flinching away from the dominant’s approach. That in of itself was wrong. A good submissive waits motionless; eyes down, and body ready.

 

But Timmy Drake had never been a _good_ submissive.

 

“W-what are you…?”

 

Hood dropped the ice and lashed him once _hard_ across his thighs.

 

The sting of the strike against his chilled skin felt strange. The initial strike less painful than he had expected but the sensation following it more so. Booming out around the struck skin like blood welling out of a wound.

 

He moaned, caught up for a moment in the strange detailed feeling. Smarting, throbbing, sore. A complex and explicitly painful indication or damage.

 

The second blow landed directly over the first. Again. A numb understanding of the impact followed by a white flare of intricate agony. It didn’t leave enough breath in him to scream. Just gasp and shake. A hopeless rattling wreck.

 

“Beg for it,” Hood said again; deadly soft.

 

“I… I don’t want…”

 

“Yes you do. Beg for it.”

 

He shook his head.

 

Three lashes struck his back in rapid fire.

 

This time he did somehow find voice enough to cry out.

 

“Beg for the ice,” the man said. Delivered three more lashes, perfectly over those he had just applied. There was something mathematical about the way he struck him; the way he talked. Tim realised it was a change of gear. Hood was settling back into a slower pace with the expectation he would be doing this for a while but with the raw experience, authority, and power to know Timmy’s will would break before his own.

 

Still, Tim clung to his refusal. “No… I don’t… _ah!_ I don’t want…”

 

“Beg for it.”

 

His refusal became desperation. “Please! I…”

 

Another snap of his crop. “Beg for it.”

 

By the time Tim was mutely whining and shaking his head the violent shudder was gone and his hair was starting to dry and stand up in rogue tufts. Each blow from the man circling him felt sharper now, hurt more, and left ugly red marks on his skin. Still, Hood did not relent – tirelessly imposing his will – and the longer Tim waited the warmer he got… and the worse the next ice bucket would be.

 

“I don’t want…” he found the tattered remains of his voice. “I don’t want…”

 

“Beg for it.”

 

He shook his head. “I don’t… don’t…” It would feel like the first dunking. Sharp, shock, pain. He knew that. But part of him held on for that very reason. Eager, _desperate_ , for the feeling again. For the total wash of inescapable sensation. “Want… don’t… _Ah_!” Held as he was he couldn’t flinch far enough, couldn’t lower his arms around himself, couldn’t do anything but take what his— _the_ dominant gave him. That knowledge knotted hot and needy between his legs. “Want… I… want…”

 

Hood circled around into the corner of his sight. Looking on. Hungry. But silent. He didn’t prompt. He didn’t encourage. _Didn’t strike him_. Just waited.

 

Tim realised what he just said, realised he’d mindlessly obeyed, and realised it was the truth. Raw, unchastened, honest. It was like a crack in the dam and the whole room waited with baited breath for the rest of the wall to give way. With a defeated moan and a dissolute shudder he pressed his forehead against the post. “I want it…”

 

Again. “Beg for it.”

 

It took a herculean effort to move his tongue. “Please I just…”

 

The crop came down again as quick as lightening; snaking across his exposed underarm.

 

He hadn’t been struck there yet and the sting was sharp and strong. Strong enough to force a broken yelp from his lips and shatter whatever invisible plug had been lodged in his throat; to break the dam. “P-please!” He cried. “Please give it to me. I want it. I need it.  Please… Please…” He pressed his face against the pole before him. “Please… please… please…”

 

“Shh,” Hood dropped the crop and moved back to pick up the bucket beside him. “That’s it. Good. You _can_ be good.” A carnivorous smile as he moved behind him, ready to pour. Instead he spoke; hoarse and harsh in his ear. “Now thank me.”

 

Ice splashed over his shoulders. Not the whole bucket. Not even close. But enough to sit in lumps on his flesh and run burning cold rivers down his stretched and naked body. Tim sobbed with the blissful agony of it and felt another gush fall over his head in a penetrating shock of cold.

 

“Thank me,” Hood reminded him.

 

He stayed silent.

 

Another gush of ice and chilled fingers digging into the back of his neck; hitting and digging into pressure points with brutal painful precision. “ _Thank me_.” More ice.

 

A mangled wretched whine. “Thank you sir…” It was the first time he used the honorific without any hint of sarcasm and, behind him, Hood heaved a very real heave filled with what sounded like very real desire. _This was real. A show but real as well. Jason really liked this. Was a_ real _dom. And he… he liked this too._ The thought was intoxicating and stole any breath he had left for a scream as the rest of the bucket flowed over his head. He never acknowledged it but Tim, as much as Timmy Drake, loved this loss of control; loved being at the whim of another; and loved the idea of someone wanting him enough to _take_ him and give him what he needed. To hurt him as he needed and turn that pain into something else. Something better.

 

“ _There_ you are, Drake,” the dominant growled as he circled him. A shark around a sinking boat. “ _There_ you are.”

 

Tim kept his eyes on him; clinging feebly to his snark even as it crumbled and fell to pieces around him. But he kept his face mostly forward now. Didn’t arch or watch him as the man paced behind him. Wasn’t brave enough for such an obnoxious show of defiance.

 

“ _Good_.” Hood purred. “See, you _want_ to be good. Perfect, needy, little thing you are. Of course you want to be good. But you’re not. You’re a bratty, disobedient, little bitch. So desperate for a master to fuck you but too scared of losing your _precious_ virginity to be obedient enough for anyone to want you.” A hand grabbed his chin, hauled his head almost too far back, and bared his throat. “Tell me you don’t want me to take it from you. Lie. Lie like the bratty little back talker you are.”

 

Numbly he shook his head; a narrow twitch from side to side trapped by the stake he was hanging off and the force of the other man’s hold on his chin. But the message was received. If it was a refusal or an agreement with the negative statement it didn’t matter. It wasn’t what the man had asked for.

 

He dug his thumb into a pressure point on his shoulder.

 

Tim let out a strangled keening cry.

 

“Tell me you do _want_ me to take it. You want me to rip it from you. You want me to make it _hurt_ so you’ll remember it, remember me, the one that broke you. Tell me the _truth_.”

 

This time he didn’t shake his head. He didn’t nod either. Didn’t utter a word. But, that still silence juxtaposed with his other refusal rung louder than anything else he could have done. It was silent shout _take me, punish me, fuck me_ that echoed like thunder in the confines of the cave. So loud in his mind’s eye that he flinched and a fresh shudder ran through his body. He knew what would be flooding the minds of the audience both present in person and online. _He refused to say he_ didn’t _want it and didn’t say anything at all when asked if he_ did _want it._ The conclusion was obvious; he wants it _. Even if he won’t admit it. Even if he fights it._

 

It was a dubious fantasy they were constructing; verging on the illusion of rape. But there was a safety in knowing it was a show; the world of pretend opening up taboo avenues of erotic desire, secretly irrefutably consensual and conforming to an unseen contract, and turned away from a true forced fantasy by Timmy Drake’s and Tim’s genuine shared want. _Need_.

 

The thing that stopped him from shaking his head when told to tell the truth.

 

It wasn’t enough for Hood. “Disobedient brat.”

 

He walked away, picked up another bucket, and hurled the ice against him. The pellets of frozen water stung as they smacked against him from the side and the fevered soak of cold shocked him down to his bones. _Five more buckets_. Another flash of blistering cold; chunks hitting him like shrapnel. _Four more buckets._ One more flood of artic water. _Three more buckets!_ But the next one never came.

 

Hood placed the third last bucket in front of him, fished into it, and pulled out a shard of melting ice. No. Not ice. It was too purposeful in its design, in the metric swell and sinking along its shaft, and untouched by chips or flakes around the edges. But if it wasn’t ice what was it? It almost looked like… a thin clear glass dildo.

 

“Wait! I’ve never…! Please just give me…” he fought for a smile, failed, and leant as far away from the approaching man as his bonds allowed. “You’re right, about everything.” Fast frantic. “Just let me go and I’ll be good. I promise. I’ll do anything you want.”

 

“Yes.” Hood didn’t slow as he stepped behind him. “You will.”

 

He felt the invasion first; a burning stretch he had never experienced before, a sense of displacement as his inner walls were pushed open, and a strange gutted ache as the probe reached places that had never been touched before. Next came the cold; a prickle that flared from his taunt entrance, burned up his insides, and sent a pure white shock up his spine into his brain. _God…_

He’d never gotten hard so fast before in his life.

He slowly became aware of his shaking limbs, heard himself moan as every movement shifted the bulbous piece of polished glass against his prostate, and finally forced his glazed and leaking eyes open again. Hood had moved to stand in front of him and looked wolfishly pleased by what he saw.

 

Quietly. So quietly even the crown of microphones just out of sight of the camera might not hear him. “Just like that Drake… you perfect little thing… that’s what I need… _just like that_ …”

 

Tim couldn’t have responded if he tried. He felt suddenly on the verge of destruction. Brought to the teetering painful edge of an orgasm in an instant. But his body was already warming the glass inside him, adapting to the feel of it, and he felt his orgasm slip one, then two, steps away. _No… no please…_ He let out a guttered groan and humped uselessly against the pole. _Need to come. Need to…_

 

He hadn’t realised he was speaking aloud until Hood responded. “Not yet. I’m going to warm you up first.”

 

He struggled to blink the fog from his eyes and, when next he looked, saw Hood completely shirtless with two floggers spinning with a dancer’s grace around him. Flogging was widely considered a staple of BDSM; lighter and gentler than a whip or a cane but with a satisfying lash and pleasing aesthetic. Softer than anything he would have expected from this dominant but still aggressive enough to invoke a needy shudder. The two spinning around Red Hood looked different than usual. Not made out of leather but thin tanned strips of what might be Kevlar with knots of rope at the end and stray black furls protruding beyond them.

 

Tim watched almost groggily until Hood stepped on a lever by the strange eighth bucket – what he _thought_ had been a bucket – and a blaze of orange snaked up in a gout of flame to taste the tips of the floggers. The black beyond the knots ignited like… wicks… they were wicks. And he’d just set them on fire.

 

_Fire flogging._

 

Tim jerked back into full awareness and stared at the other man as the flaming tails spun leisurely around him.

 

“What’s wrong, Drake?” A wicked smirk. “I thought you dragons _breathed_ this stuff.”

 

Nothing was wrong. To his shock Tim felt nothing but raw tingling excitement as he saw the other man; sculpted planes of muscle tapering from broad shoulders down to narrow hips, eyes shining with the reflected glow of the fire, and shadows dancing like demons across his skin. His wild erotic savagery highlighted and perfected by the hypnotic feral dance of flares around him. As primal and utterly necessary for survival as a heartbeat. The most simply sexual thing he had ever seen. Better. So much better than _anything_ Big Dick Grayson. _Yes…_ he felt Hood’s words echo in his own brain at the raw flush of desire that shot through him. _Just like that Hood… that’s what I need… just like that…_


	19. Chapter 19

The feeling was indescribable.

 

Both a sting and a soft stroke at the same time. Aggressive and tender. Abusive and loving.

 

 _Hot_.

 

He could still feel his orgasm bubbling unfulfilled inside him as the last lingering chunks of ice rapidly melted and dropped from his hair down onto the ground, sweat joined the water dripping down his brow, and his front felt frigid in comparison to the flood of heat pouring over his back.

 

The Red Hood spun the floggers fast; the blazing knots lashing his damp back and rolling away again too fast to burn and instead sending rapid hot flashes through him like the crackle of fireworks. At first he had put on a brief show of struggling but soon the sensation swallowed him and he slumped forward submissively; giving himself to the dominant and letting his pleasure be heard in the sharp high pitched gasps and short faltering screams falling from between his lips.

 

He could practically _feel_ the man behind him growling with approval.

 

For the first time since the show began he was behaving like a proper submissive, working with the other performer, and _feeling_ the erotic thrum of rightness between their roles. His outward porn persona, Timmy Drake, was feeling it as well. He could feel the bratty submissive melting – _seduced_ – into compliance by the sheer magnitude of what they were experiencing. The fire, the flogging, and the smooth glass dildo still shifting inside him.

 

So they lent forward together, hung against the bonds together, and cried out together. And _this_. _This_ was how he wanted to lose his virginity. Being one with the erotic accidental creation, _with_ Timmy Drake in body and soul. _As_ Timmy Drake the bratty submissive who had finally found a dominant to give him what he needed. What Tim needed. What _they_ needed.

 

The flogging could have lasted hours or minutes. He had no way of knowing, no way to even guess, and didn’t care, didn’t think, just submitted to the feeling.

 

When hood finished he tossed the floggers aside to leave them burning harmlessly on the stone floor, grabbed another ice bucket, and threw it over him with frightening speed. The shock of ice hurt more than usual, was agony along his superheated back, but also came was a cooling wash of relief.

 

“Thank you sir…” he breathed. Earnest, pained, blissed.

 

A low purr. “Good boy.”

 

The shiver of pleasure that went through him at the praise was shocking; violent and beautiful… like the fire. Like the Red Hood.

 

Low. “Do you submit?”

 

“To you…” the articulation of his words surprised him; funnelling entirely from Timmy Drake. Not a simple ‘yes’ or ‘I do’ like expected of a submissive but a directive giving of himself to _this_ dominant. _Almost_ cheeky. _Almost_ out of line. More than enough excuse for this man to start another round of punishment if he chose.

 

Hood growled but there was something approving in his voice; greedy, selfish possessive. Still, he was as Bruce said after total submission and dug his fingers painfully into Tim’s shoulder.

 

“Yes… yes… _yes_ ,” he amended in pained gasps. “I submit!”

 

Without relaxing his hold. “How many times have you disobeyed me, Drake?”

 

“I…” he thought frantically, working through the pain of the dominant pressing knowingly on pressure points. In panic. “I don’t know.”

 

“How many times have you talked back?”

 

“I… please, I’m sorry.”

 

“How many displays of defiance?”

 

He was shaking his head. “I don’t… I can’t count it…”

 

“Countless? Is that your answer?”

 

He shuddered and nodded. Hopeless. Frightened.

 

A strangely soft touch as he released his shoulder. “Then this next part is going to hurt, little thing.”

 

He watched as Hood walked away from him until the man looked back and snarled over his shoulder. “Eyes down.”

 

Tim obeyed and stared at the melting bucket of ice left in front of him. It reflected one of the studio lights. Nothing else. Nothing of what Red Hood was doing or preparing. He thought about breaking the order. About flicking his eyes up to see what he was doing. It wouldn’t take long. Hood probably wouldn’t notice. But if he did…

 

He still needed to come. Was aching for it. The weight of the dildo inside him an urgent needy nudge, balls tight, and cock hard. And still he didn’t know what Hood was…

 

“Eyes up.”

 

He looked up. Hood stood in front of him with a long black single tailed whip simular to the one Catwoman wielded as her weapon of choice. It coiled from a sturdy handle, snaked along the floor, and _was on fire_. A single flaming cord dwindling down to a sharp point.

 

A very real flush of fear.

 

_Oh fuck…_

 

Hood’s lips twitched as he registered the look in his eye but he stood for a while longer; allowed Tim the chance to take it in and, perhaps, the chance to click his fingers and escape. That thought only came to him later after Red Hood started walking around Tim to his exposed back; the whip dragging behind him like the flaming tail of a devil… or a dragon.

 

He watched him until he would have to turn his head to keep doing so and hesitated, torn. Hood didn’t like him to turn his head. But the end of his whip was already snaking out of sight behind him. He wanted to see what he was doing. Needed to see… began to turn his head…

 

 _CRACK!_ The sound was near deafening and echoed in the cave. Tim cried out but the pain never came. A warning.

 

“Face forward!”

 

He quickly turned his face obediently towards the torture post, gripped the cord between his hands leading to the top of the furniture in white knuckled fists, and tried to control his suddenly violent sweats and shakes. He wished he could close his legs. Wished he could test his bonds without incurring the wrath of the man behind him. Wished he wasn’t suddenly so painfully terrified. _Oh God… oh fuck… oh God…_

 

Softly. “I gave five direct orders that you did not immediately obey.” A torturous long pause. “What were they?”

 

Tim’s mind flew back. “Come here,” he remembered. “Beg for it… thank m—AAHHHH!!!” He screamed. Loud. True. Any hint of acting, any hint of exaggeration, gone in a moment; body falling forward against the torture post. The pain was real and overwhelming; the lash sending a wave of crimson red into his brain, heat scorching his skin, and… it came again. A deafening slash of brutal pain across his back. Unlike anything he had ever felt.

 

“I didn’t hear that third one,” Hood called lightly, almost playfully.

 

Tim struggled to reel his thoughts under control. To find his balance. To do _anything_. But no… he didn’t need to do anything. He just needed to obey. Just needed… another crack. His vision flashed red, a trail of sparks danced over his shoulder.

 

“I said; I didn’t hear that third one!”

 

“Thank me!” Tim yelled and screamed out as the punishing blow landed.

 

“Good boy.” Husky. Hungry. “Two more. Two you never obeyed.”

 

“Tell me you don’t want it…” _CRACK!_

 

“Tell me you do.” His voice was a ruined whimper. _CRACK!_

 

“Tell me you do,” the order echoed his own words.

 

He was obeying before he had even fully registered the command. “I do, I do. I want it. I want you to hurt me. I want you to fuck me. I want you to possess me. I do. Please. Please…” His cheeks were wet, hands hurting where they dug into the post, and eyes closed.

 

A hissing sound as the whip was drawn across the floor. “Now why was everyone saying they had such trouble with you? You’re being so good for me.” A cruel, playful, edge to his voice.

 

“You’re my m—” he began. Broke off with a strangled sound as the whip met his back for a seventh time. Harder.

 

Angry. “I’m not _your_ anything, Drake. _You’re mine_.”

 

This wound felt worse than the others. Stung in a couple of sharp points with the raw promise of damage. A hot trickle ran down his shoulder blade. Blood. He’d drawn blood.

 

Tim had crossed blood play off the contract…

 

He heard the whip clatter to the floor and the quick advance of the man behind him. He didn’t say anything as he came into Tim’s line of sight. Didn’t break the scene or risk a whisper that could be picked up by the microphones or hovering cameras. But his hand was on Tim’s arm; the arm that owned the hand already posed to click out. _Wait! Hear me out._ And the look on his face when he turned his back to the cameras was keenly, desperately, apologetic. _That was a mistake._

 

Tim flashed him a look; angry. _A mistake?! The contract!_

 

The desperation in the dom’s eyes grew. _Please. Don’t click out now. I need this._

 

He did, Tim knew. Jason – because he was suddenly dealing with Jason again – needed this debut. This was his big chance as much as it was Tim’s to prove himself to Bruce and move up in the ranks of the house. They needed each other, they needed a win here, but they also needed to do things right. Bruce paired him up with Jason because he followed the rules. He’d told him that. And, he learnt from Kane, it was his job as much as it was his dom’s to ensure things went according to plan. But Bruce had also told him to communicate with Jason. Isn’t that what they were doing now? Communicating? Mitigating damages? Fixing a problem so they wouldn’t have to ruin both their debuts. So they could have a _chance_ at this crazy game of fantasy, sex, and levels in a house.  


“Please,” he rasped. Low. Hoarse. “ _Just one more chance_.” A pointed look quickly hidden in lowered lashes. “Give me one more chance, sir. I’ll be good.” _One more chance. I’m giving you one more chance._

 

Jason squeezed his arm. Firmly but gently. _Deal._

 

He relaxed his fingers, took a breath, and plunged back into the sub mind space. Back to where he’d left Timmy Drake for a moment; rolling over in blissed agony, aching with the need to come, and thrumming with hard won submission. _Brat_. He thought at him. Something to draw him closer to the character. _No_ , Timmy Drake shook his head in response and Tim felt the motion move his physical body. _No. I’ll be good. Please more…_ There he found him. In the desire to hurt more, to _feel_ more. To finish this with the brutal bodily invasion they promised. There he reconnected – every fibre of his being – with the ridiculous _wonderful_ dragon themed ego.

 

“One more chance, dragon boy.” Hood sold the submission to the audience. “Be good for me now.”

 

His collar snapped off.

 

Tim blinked in surprise and felt a nervous odd feeling of nakedness prickle around his neck. The bonds holding his arms above his head followed, then those around his ankles. The Red Hood loosened the buckles on his boots, stood on his heels, and encouraged him to step out of them with a sharp slap to each thigh in turn. He did so feeling the estranged sense of nudity swell as his last flimsy scraps of clothing was removed. _Nothing_. For the first time in the manor he wore absolutely nothing.

 

In a final act of laying bare Hood also reached between his newly liberated legs and pulled the glass dildo out to let it drop with a solid thunk on the floor.

 

Tim gasped as the insertion was removed feeling gutted and painfully empty rather than released. Like a doll that, now completely bare, had all the imperfections of its seams and joints showing.

 

A hand at the back of his neck guided him out from behind the torture post towards the dark padded sawhorse standing at the ready. The violent shudder that went through him at the sight of the simple dungeon equipment was crippling, left him staggering, and if not for the body behind him or the hand at his neck probably would have sent him sprawling.

 

Hood roughly steadied him. “You’re not defying me are you, dragon boy?”

 

He jerked his head mutely from side to side, shaking too much to will his clumsy tongue towards speech. Eyes locked on the piece of furniture they approached and the explicit purpose behind it. The sawhorse was stark, black, and covered in leather straps to hold an occupant in place. To hold them down. _Open._

 

This was it. This was _it_.

 

Another wave of body wracking shakes. _Oh fuck… oh God… oh no… oh… yes… please yes yes yes…_

 

“You’re scared.” It wasn’t a question.

 

Tim nodded anyway. His whole body a fit of random tremors.

 

Hood walked him forward another wobbly step. “You never thought this would _really_ happen, did you? You never thought that I would _really_ have the nerve to take this from you. You couldn’t _conceive_ that our Master of the House would let it happen. That he wouldn’t even notice you’ve gone.” Another step. “You always thought, secretly, you were too important – _too precious_ – for that. You’re Timmy Drake. The boy with the dragon tattoo. The brat that everyone loves.” One more shuffling lurch forward. “Wayne would see it sooner or later. He would see how much better you were. He would pick you up and place you at his feet. You would be the most loved, cherished, and _fucked_ submissive in the whole house.” His knees thudded against the sawhorse. “You always thought you were special. But you’re not. You’re just like all those other submissives. Desperate, needy. Now I’m going to use you like you were meant to be used. Like you’re nothing. Like you _need_. And you don’t even know my name.”

 

“Yes…” he croaked, a fresh streak of tears darting down sure to be white cheeks. “ _Please_ … you’re right... don’t leave me now… give it to me. Fuck me. Please sir. _Please_.”

 

A pause.

 

Hood didn’t push him down or move away. A breath. A few seconds silence. A broadening moment to consider and bring to light the meaning of what had just happened. _The breaking of the brat._

 

Then it began.

 

Tim gasped in pain as the man planted his hand in the middle of his abused shoulder blades and pushed; bending him over the length of the sawhorse. His limbs were roughly manipulated into position in align with the legs of the stand, leather belts snapped closed, and face sternly directed down. He was shaking enough to rattle the straps but also gasping as his erect cock was crushed between his body and the horse; as if it were useless, unneeded, and irrelevant. He shifted slightly, sliding his hips against the meagre padding beneath him, and the sting of pleasure that shot through him awoke the bubbling mass of desire still sitting low in his gut. The festering – long denied – need to come.

 

The still flaming floggers and whip shone in the corner of his vision, the darkness beyond the cameras occupied the other corner. A confusing interplay of dark and light. But before him was just a simple leather bed for his head, around him all freedom had been robbed from his body, and behind him a series of implacable sounds as Hood readied himself. It was… terrifying, overwhelming… perfect. Perfect to the bizarre point of relaxing as he gave himself – all of himself – to the dominant.

 

Timmy Drake wasn’t with him anymore. Timmy Drake _was_ him. He was Timmy Drake. Together and one. Anything that could ever distinguish them swept away by the simple rule of the man behind him. In that moment; more than he was Timmy Drake – more than he was Tim – he was _his_. Hood’s. The property of the man who had taken him, broken him, and now possessed him.

 

Thrumming with that knowledge, _shaking_ with it, near moaning with it; he waited.

 

Two fingers. A heavy, wet, intrusion that ploughed unapologetically into him, grazed agonisingly against hidden pleasure centres, and scissored him open.

 

He shook violently and rasped out a tortured cry. “Ah… _ah!”_

 

A throaty approving growl in response. “You’re so _tight_ …”

 

The fingers disappeared only to come back a moment later with more cool wet weight and more force. Harder. Deeper.

 

Tim writhed and arched as much as his bonds allowed; trying to rub his erection against the leather and feel the forceful probe of the dominant’s fingers. The wilful movement won him a quick sharp slap on his arse. A warning. He stilled with a pained needy whine and heard a low ragged chuckle in response.

 

“So desperate…”

 

The fingers left again. This time they did not return.

 

The audible snap of a buckle coming undone. The sight of something falling to the ground in his peripheral vision. The weight of a hand braced itself on his hip, squeezing a little too hard. The crisp hot smell of lube, fire smoke, and cigarettes… The taste of his own throbbing broken moan as the other man finally _finally_ pushed into him.

 

It hurt.

 

A lot.

 

But Tim drank in that pain like water from an oasis.

 

He cried out, shuddered so hard his teeth clacked together, and begged mindlessly as his rim was forced wide, insides brutally opened, and bits of him he didn’t even know existed were pushed aside. “P-please… please… ple- _ah!_ … _please!_ …”

 

One final ripping thrust brought Hood hilt deep, sent a flare of white hot heat up his spine, and robbed Tim of any voice he had left with a choked off sob.

 

“Feel that, Drake?”

 

He drew back an inch and slammed back into place, near drowning Tim in a blaze of mixed sensation; damage and desire.

 

“That is me using you.”

 

He drove violently into him again.

 

“ _This_ is me _possessing_ you.”

 

Another thrust. Another wash of crippling feeling. _God, why could he feel so much?_ He could feel _everything._ Every fibre of his being crying, singing, screaming with an unstoppable assault of sensation. The horse under him, the straps around him, the man inside him.

 

“This is me taking from you!”

 

Again. Pressure. _Pain_. A fleeting forbidden touch of pleasure so fierce it almost consumed him.

 

“You’re going to spend your life in need of this feeling.”

 

He pushed into him hard enough Tim thought he was going to split in two. Raw, primal, _more please more…_

 

“Trying to recreate it.”

 

_Oh… oh fuck… he was going to…_

 

“ _Begging_ for it. On the ground. At my feet. Where you _belong_.”

 

Tim came.

 

A white hot wall of bliss that ripped through his body, sprayed out of him, and dragged him below the tepid current of self-awareness like he was a fish being pulled down by the arms of an impossible sea monster. All he felt was the man inside him. All he knew was the complex weave of pain and pleasure he was giving him. All he sensed were treasures of this moment; coursing through his hypersensitive body until he couldn’t distinguish between pain and pleasure at all. Just one steady throb of feeling.

 

The fantasy made flesh… so much better than anything he could have ever imagined. So much better than anything that could possibly be seen on camera.

 

It felt like hours; hours of endless elongated bliss, hours of drifting ajar in his body, hours of _him_. The first he knew it was over was when Hood removed one of his arms from its bonds and pulled it around so he could feel his own gaping entrance; come leaking out of him in warm sticky rivers.

 

The order was quiet; breathy. “Thank me.”

 

Without a thought. “Thank you sir…”


	20. Chapter 20

Tim wasn’t sure exactly how he was taken out of the dungeon; if he walked, was led, or simply carried. Everything was a blur, his knees were frighteningly weak, and his whole body still throbbed – both inside and out – in wistful tortured memory of what had been done to it. He had a vague recollection of the Red Hood licking blood off his bottom lip where Tim had bitten through the skin, of being made to kiss the feet of the audience members leaving the dungeon, and a man with a small fire-extinguisher carefully taking care of the whip and floggers. But it was all seen as if from a great distance or through a camera with slow shutter speed. None of it quite defined. None of it quite real.

 

The first concrete memory he had was Alfred smearing something stinging along the cut across his back and Bruce thrusting a version of the contract towards Jason with a number of things underlined and circled. The words risk, potential danger, and hard limits penetrated his brain with a sharp ring of alarm. An urgent indication of wrongness.

 

“No…” he muttered and, judging by the way they looked at him he assumed it was the first thing he had said since the show ended. He ploughed on regardless. “No, it’s okay. He only broke the rules once and it was an accident.”

 

“An ‘accident’ which should never have happened!” The man turned ruthlessly back towards the dominant. “If Drake hasn’t reeled you back into line I’m sure it would have happened again.”

 

Jason. “You’re fucking sure, are you? I fucked up! I wasn’t going to whip him again. I barely hit him after that.”

 

“If I might be so bold,” Alfred spoke up. “I suggest we check for inconstancies in the whip. Kevlar is always more temperamental than leather especially when heated. The cut is not big nor right across his back. It could be a chink in the build.” Something in the way Alfred spoke made Tim think he was lying. Trying to break up the fight by suggesting a no-fault option without truly believing it.

 

The dark flash in Bruce’s eyes implied he heard it too. Moved on regardless. “Never mind that now. The temperature play was extr—”

 

“It was good,” Tim interrupted him before he could finish. “The temperature stuff. I signed off on it. It was good.”

 

Someone he didn’t know holding a tablet and wired up with an earpiece stepped out of the shadows and Tim wondered if he had been there the whole time. “We _need_ to get them into interview, Mr Wayne! The views are already shooting up. If we get some behind the scenes _anything_ online now we’ll cutting profit in less than—”

 

The door burst open. “A Song of Ice and Fire!” Dick sang out as he walked in.

 

“No,” Bruce snapped.

 

“Come _on_! It’s the perfect title. We have ice, we have fire, we have _a dragon_ , and sex. I admit it isn’t _quite_ George R.R Martin but what does HBO got that we don’t? Boobs? A hot dwarf? I have contacts, Bruce. Give me an hour.”

 

In a growl. “Get them into interview.”

 

Tim felt himself being propelled onto his feet as Dick tried to make his case and hurtled through a door into a long narrow corridor. He was still naked, still shaking, and keenly aware Jason was following as the strange man led him into a small soundproofed room already set up with a camera and a flush faced crew. The set was simple and clearly thrown together; just a chair against the rock wall of the cave.

 

“W-what should I do?”

 

Jason. “What you were doing before.”

 

“What was that?”

 

“Be broken.”

 

Jason sat in the chair and, after a moment, Tim knelt at his feet, put his hands behind his back, and rested his forehead on his lap. They both shuffled a bit until they were comfortable, Tim stopped trying to hide his shiver, and Jason put his hand on the back of his neck. Red Hood held that grip a little too firmly and absently stroked the hair at the back of his skull.

 

“Perfect,” a crewmember breathed.

 

The camera rolled.

 

It wasn’t a long interview. Just a quick tailored selection of questions that would go up raw online for a few days and probably be cut into a better edited version of the show sometime in the next few weeks. Tim sunk gratefully back into his role, not bothering to listen, and almost felt himself slip towards the evaporating edge of his lingering submissive mind space.

 

He kissed, nuzzled, and licked beseechingly at the leather on Hood’s thigh; mindlessly worshipping him and outwardly completely oblivious to his surroundings or the conversation that was going on over his head. In truth he very nearly was. Only snippets of dialogue really registered and only ever from the man he leant against.

 

“…hate bratty submissives who don’t know their place. This one’s been flaunting himself for months and Wayne hasn’t…”

 

“…he expected what he got with Kane. A beating then a reward for submitting. That’s enough for some but…”

 

“…don’t like gags and blindfolds. I like to see the result of my work. _Hear_ it. If I don’t want my boys to see I tell them not to look. They obey. It’s a level of control that…”

 

“…naked. Even collars. That way we’re stripping back to the core. Getting rid of all…”

 

“…breaking wilful submissives in isn’t training. He’ll still need work before he’s…”

 

“…think I’ll be holding onto him for a few more…”

 

“…knew what he needed…”

 

Tim slowly tuned out more and more as he dedicated himself to the task of lovingly licking and nuzzling against his dominant’s knee. Consumed by the man who had taken him. The submissive attention was rewarded when he was given two fingers – still smelling of lube – to suck. He moaned in delight.

 

 Hood tugged sharply on his hair.

 

“ _Quiet_.”

 

Tim shook at the pain blooming across his scalp and silently plunged his face forward to pleasure the man’s fingers in silence. Hood’s hold in his hair transformed back to the firm but gentle absent stroking as before.

 

The last question in the interview was directed at him. “Did you get what you needed, Timmy?”

 

He didn’t answer. Didn’t look up. Didn’t stop what he was doing.

 

Red Hood removed his fingers. “Did you get what you needed, little thing?”

 

To this he nodded. “Yes sir.”


	21. Chapter 21

It sold.

 

A lot.

 

Far more than was expected of a gay fringe bondage scene.

 

Far more than Tim had ever hoped it would.

 

Other websites paid to host it, Wayne challenged a sex shop for trying to sell equipment using a screenshot of it, and the manor created a class on fire and ice play with experts who apparently enthusiastically if not flatteringly dissected their dungeon performance as well as set off the fire alarms.

 

In the days that followed Tim drank in the massive stacks of comments building on the video like ambrosia, lay awake touching the yellowing bruises, and drifted around in a state of acute aching hyperawareness and errant greedy hope. Would Wayne be satisfied? Would he be able to perform again? Would he be able to perform again _with him?_

 

He hadn’t known what to expect from that night but he hadn’t expected what he’d received. If anything he assumed The Red Hood would go for sensory deprivation, heavy restraint, and brutal but standard punishment. He’d crossed blood play off the contract after a nightmare-inducing bout of wild speculation as to what _Red_ Hood actually meant. Temperature play and all its subcategories, on the other hand, was not something he had seriously considered would be the included let alone used as the main attraction. He didn’t think he had ever seen a porno of fire or ice play before. But it _fit_. Opposites together. Stark but complimentary. Like a dominant and a submissive. Like Tim and Timmy Drake.

 

If only his dominant hadn’t left before he could construct the words to compliment him on the creativity of the set up.

 

Jason, as it turned out, wasn’t much when it came to after-care. Despite the overpowering vocal presence of his Red Hood ego, the man himself didn’t say much more than a ‘good work, kid. Was fun’ to him behind the scenes that night. Less than an hour after the show he had finished his fight with Bruce, exchanged some hushed words with Dick, and disappeared from the house leaving Tim feeling gutted, lost, and undeservedly abandoned. It was a stupid feeling. He was stupid for feeling it. Despite everything Tim knew it had been a show no matter how much he has quested to make it real; real enough to lose his virginity to, real enough to invoke a lingering sub space, and real enough to fuse him with Timmy Drake until he wore the persona like scales on his skin.

 

Real enough that his dominant’s absence couldn’t take it away from him. Nothing could take away the high he got when he thought of it, touched the marks on his skin, let alone saw the thumbnail of the video online. A single frame. Timmy Drake twisting naked on the torture pole, dragon tattoo on display, and face a mess of raw agony and tampered bliss. The Red Hood behind him looking most beast than man; teeth flashing, bare chest shining with sweat, and a long flaming whip caught snaking with the lethal grace of a striking cobra through the air between them. The moment of impact captured in perfect detail; when he’s registered the pain, sucked in a breath, but before he had time to scream. Better than he ever could have ever imagined it looking. Violent, sexual, beautiful… perfect.

 

Wayne phoned him on Wednesday morning telling him he would be working the top floor that night. A special one-off privilege to milk the success of the video. Once at the manor he was shown a different underground car park with rocky waterfall hiding the entrance and an elevator that would take him to any floor on the house. In that car park he learnt Big Dick Grayson drove a massive blue motorbike, Bruce Wayne loved cars and had an army of them all in black, and Catwoman only drove cars from Wayne’s collection… not always with permission but she somehow always managed to win his forgiveness afterward.

 

A bouncer smiled at him as he stepped out of the lift and spoke with a southern accent, “welcome to the penthouse.” It was enough to unravel him for a moment. The realisation that he was _really_ here. He was _really_ doing this. He was _really_ getting this chance.

 

He was on the top floor.

 

Wayne and Jason were waiting for him when muddled his way into the change rooms and he was given a black harness with a ring at the front and knee high boots in form of costume. His red collar was gone but, oddly, he didn’t miss it. There was something raw, real, and erotic in being shed of all things he wore as the bratty dancer downstairs; dressed instead to suit the whims of a dominant. Even if the Red Hood was a fictional character.

 

“You two are the big attraction tonight,” Bruce told them both sharply as they dressed. “Play with each other and play _safe_.” A pointed look at Jason. “We don’t have heavy bondage on this floor and nothing with ambiguous consent without a contract.” He turned to Tim who was tugging experimentally on his new harness. “ _You_ need to show me who Timmy Drake his now and how you’re selling him.”

 

Jason snorted. “Timmy Drake’s broken. That was the point, right? We can work him as a normal submissive now.”

 

“Timmy Drake has a larger fan base especially among patrons than The Red Hood,” Wayne snapped at the man. Looked back to Tim. “That fan base it the goal tonight, Drake. I want them up here. I want them spending money on you.” A hard look. “You know your fans better than anyone. You’re the one that knows what they want from you. Whatever that is, show me you can keep their interest now that you’re not a virgin. Show me you can bring enough clients up here and I’ll make you a star.”

 

A fluttering sting of nerves. “Okay.” he squeaked.

 

“One last test, Drake. Then you’re in.” He straightened. “Welcome to the penthouse.”

 

With that introduction and an ugly grimace from Jason he was walked out of the change rooms unto the top floor of Wayne Manor.

 

It was beautiful. Everything rich with intricate lavish detail; the red over the windows made of fine silk, the seats studded leather, and walls coated in elegant ornate paper. A dozen massive doors made of dark wood with elaborate erotic designs carved onto them stood in a line on the far side of the room. Most of these doors were open showing a vibrant collection sets Tim recognised from different pornos. The prison cell Police Woman Barbara was gang banged in, the smoky circus themed stage where Big Dick Grayson was suspended, and a dark room decked out for Catwoman’s next submissive. Some doors were closed with _filming in progress_ resting off brass handles though Tim suspected that was a façade and most of the filming happened when the manor wasn’t open to guests.

 

In comparison the bottom floor was noisy, tacky, and messy. A cheap version of the luxury laid out before him. Even the W emblem engraved into the bar was somehow more exotic than its twin downstairs.

 

“Hey, kid.”

 

He looked over at Jason. A flutter of nerves in his stomach. “Yeah?”

 

The man looked a bit unhappy as he stepped out into the lounge area; still as yet deserted of the guests that would be starting to trickle in downstairs. He wasn’t wearing his jacket and was once again the shirtless exhibition of muscle Tim remembered from the dungeon. “I’ve never worked the top floor before.”

 

Tim stared, suddenly painfully aware he knew The Red Hood leagues better than he knew Jason. “Me neither.”

 

“Yeah. And…” Jason shifted. “You’re a real good sub.”

 

A long pause. Big Dick Grayson had seen them step out and was approaching with a practised swagger.

 

“I mean it, kid. I don’t want to say it in front of the boss because he’s, you know, an arsehole. But, the other night, I’ve never had a sub that made me look as good as you did. I’m not a great dom. I can do it, I love it, but I’m not as good as you made me look. It just… you were _so real_ , you know. I could play off you.”

 

Tim. “Oh…”

 

Dick was getting closer.

 

“The boss doesn’t like me. I don’t like him.” Jason ploughed on. “If you can make _me_ look _that_ good go play with some of the real good doms. You’ll be unbelievable. That’ll sell you to the boss.”

 

“I’m playing with you,” without a hint of doubt.

 

Hesitantly. “Kid… you don’t need to always follow the rules… I don’t know what I’m doing up here. You’re good enough to play well off one of the stars. This is your big break.”

 

“It’s not that.” Tim told him with more confidence than he felt. “We’ve got a story together now. A plot. _It works_. Like your fire and ice thing. It worked.” He looked directly at him. Something he knew he wouldn’t be allowed to do the moment they were in character. “You’re a good dom. You make _me_ look good.”

 

The man’s gaze shifted. “You think…?”

 

“Yo,” Grayson sashayed into the scene. “What’s up? Either of you newbies need a playmate till midnight? David Zavimbe isn’t in, Barbara dumped me for the girls, and I _so_ don’t want to have to put my back out sucking myself off. Seriously, I’m getting too old for this shit.”

 

Jason looked at him. He looked at Jason. Silently they agreed. _Together._

 

“Buzz off Big Prick,” Jason said. “Stop leeching off our fame.”

 

His eyebrows shot up. “ _Me_ leeching off _your_ fame?” A happy laugh. “I’m sorry, _oh holy dragon rider_ , I didn’t know you were suddenly such a big deal now. But, I’m serious. I miss playing with you and I want to play with you too, Timmy. What about a three—?”

 

“Guests coming!” A bouncer called.

 

Tim watched Dick transform into Big Dick Grayson. His smile shifted, stance changed, and eyes grew seductive and hungry. Beside him, Jason snapped into character in an instant like a match set a flame. Shoulders square, chin lowered, and gaze dark to an unnatural degree. Turned to him.

 

“Here, little thing.”

 

The shudder that went through him at hearing that voice levelled at him with that tone with those words shocked even him. The voice of his dominant. _Master…_

 

He slunk obediently towards the other man, dropped to his knees – grateful for the height of the boots – and made a show of begging for his cock. Pawing at his pants, nuzzling his groin, and gazing pleadingly at him. Where they had left off.

 

The guests began to trickle in the door.

 

“Let me have him, please,” Big Dick Grayson pouted at The Red Hood; continuing their conversation though this time in character. “I train all the subs and you’ve had him for _days_.” Childishly. “It’s not fair that _you’re_ the only one that gets to play with the dragon.”

 

Tim could see people approach. To his shock he noticed Ra’s among them. Suit a dark tailored green, cufflinks gold, and followed by a couple of red cheeked businessmen he recognised; all eyes directed at him. He saw the berry-man, a Cuban he knew he gave lap dances too often, the man in the wheelchair he’d played for one night, the couple who had suggested a threesome with him, and _there_ was the British bride he had dressed as Tammy Drake for months before.

 

His patrons.

 

Here to see if he was still something interesting; worth spending money on.

 

He eyed them nervously through lowered lashes.

 

What did they want to see? Not a return to the brat. He knew that. Dick was right. The fantasy in the brat was that he would get taught a lesson. Become good. If he reverted back to that character now he’ll unravel everything his trip to the dungeon just set up. Rob the magic – the _satisfaction_ – out of his first time. A first time he was _still_ feeling. Still bore the marks of. That he wanted to hold onto forever. That he had watched for the first time that night and come _hard_ with barely a touch.

 

No. He wouldn’t destroy that. He would not return to the brat. He would not undermine The Red Hood’s total domination over him. But he didn’t think they wanted mindless submissive either. There had always been colour in Timmy Drake. Always a character. Even when he wasn’t being bratty.

 

He’d always been… needy, greedy, _attention hungry_. Playful, flirty, and intrinsically knowingly sexual. He could be a good submissive, he could be a dominant’s fresh untrained whore, and still be the Timmy Drake they knew.

 

He started moving himself more erotically against Hood; moving with all the desperation but none of the graceless abandon to stroke his tongue around the shape of his hidden cock. Submissively seducing. Carefully manipulating. Ghosting along the edge of what was allowed in an attempt to get what he needed. _I’m yours. Take me. Hurt me. Fuck me._

 

“…he does need training,” Big Dick was saying pointedly. “You admitted it yourself. Breaking is not training. And he’s just broken. The longer you put it off the more bad habits he’ll pick up; like pawing all over you like that.”

 

Tim arched; showing off his naked form as he draped himself over the dominant. Putting himself on display as all eyes snaked over him. He shivered in delight.

 

Big Dick moved closer to Hood. “ _Let_ me have him, Red.” Voice huskier. “Just for a bit. I’ll let you have me. You haven’t had me in a _long_ time. You’d like that wouldn’t you? A whole night to do _whatever_ you wanted to me.” Even closer. Close enough to almost crush Tim between them. For Tim to feel the hard shape of his thigh. “All you have to do is let me take him for tonight, Red. That’s not too much is it? For me?” Playfully. “Please let me have him. I promise I won’t damage him.”

 

Tim groaned and mouthed hungrily, lavishly, at Hood’s groin. The man seemed to take notice of him for the first time. Saw how he put a show of humping against him, looked around at the gathered crowd, and blinked coyly up at Big Dick.

 

“You like this, little thing?” The dominant’s teeth showed as he smiled; Jason catching on the angle he was playing. “Being the centre of attention. Being seen. Being _wanted_.”

 

He let the excitement of the acknowledgement show on his face and send a tremor down his spine. Breathlessly. “Yes sir.”

 

A dark amusement shone in his eyes. “You’re a little attention whore, aren’t you?”

 

Eagerly. “Yes sir.”

 

“I could have told you that!” One of the patrons yelled out to laughter and murmurs of agreement. They were getting comfortable on the furniture around them, ordering drinks, and chatting with each other. More were coming; some ghosting towards the straight and lesbian performers but an intoxicating amount were drifting towards them. They were the star attractions tonight, Tim knew, the only gay pair, and the presence of Big Dick Grayson couldn’t hurt.

 

Hood bent over and took Tim’s jaw in his hand. Began to lift him. “That’s why you were so bratty, huh? So people would look.”

 

He let his lust and uncertainty towards this man show as he was slowly hoisted him up onto his feet. “Yes sir.”

 

“Why you talked back and teased?”

 

“Yes sir.”

 

“That’s why you start to get wilful when I ignore you.”

 

What could he say but…? “Y-yes sir.” And. “I’m sorry sir.”

 

A low, dangerous, chuckle. “That’s alright, little thing.” Stroked a hand through his hair. The softness of the movement somehow indicative of imaginary punishment. “I know you are.”

 

He knew the story Hood was selling. Officially Timmy Drake and The Red Hood hadn’t left each other’s presence since Saturday night. Despite spending those days apart they needed their audience to believe Tim had really done nothing this week; caught up in a haze of sex, punishment, and servitude under the care of this man.

 

Grayson laughed and sat down on a sofa between two guests, throwing his arms welcomingly along the back of the cushions and smiling at each of them in turn. “You’re an attention whore, Timmy? Great. Now if we could bring this conversation back around to _me…”_ The patrons laughed and the woman beside Dick nervously put a hand on his thigh. He allowed it; one of the privileges of the top floor.

 

The rules upstairs were different. Here the stars had sex with each other. Here guests were allowed to get close enough to touch if not join in. Here employees spoke unwaveringly in character to the clientele. Here they lived the ‘down time’ of the fantasy as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

 

Here they were Big Dick Grayson, The Red Hood, and Timmy Drake when not on stage. As an important part of the fantasy as their performances. A fostering and nurturing of the belief that this was actually real.

 

“You want him, Grayson?” Hood growled. “He’s just another little show off like you.”

 

“Oh, I ain’t _little_ , Red.” More laughter. The woman touched Dick’s groin and he smiled, waved a finger at her in flirtatious reprimand, and slid her hand away but not before letting her feel the organ there.

 

“If you want him,” the dominant growled. “Get down.”

 

The man’s eyebrow cocked. “You’re taking me up on my offer?” Light. Hopeful. “Me for him?”

 

“Oh! That’ll be hot. Do it!” The woman beside him pushed Dick off the couch where he obediently fell onto all fours and blinked erotically up at the gathered elite. Like a coin flip. His dominant nature falling away in place of a submissive one. A switch. Never quite seen the way doms and subs were in the manor – Grayson would never submit with the same themes of ‘need’ or bend to total domination the way Tim did – but capable of effortlessly filling the blank.

 

“Naked.”

 

Dick quickly ripped off his own pants; bursting open at the clips along the seams.

 

Hood produced a bottle of lube from the back of his belt, and to Tim’s shock, gave it to him. “Prepare him for me, Drake.”

 

Uncertainly. “Yes sir…”

 

It was a strange task, awkward with his inexperience, but he kept to character and made a show of it. Drank in the lustful looks, the touches from the crowd, and the dominant prowling around them with a now obvious erection in his pants. He was already well into the task before he realised… his fingers were in Big Dick Grayson. He was on his knees behind _that man_ , inside him, and Big Dick Grayson by all appearances was loving it. His teenage porn star moaned for him, rolled his hips back, and spread his legs. Between those legs he saw for the first time in the flesh the man’s infamous member. Already erect, _long_ , and purpling at the tip. _God…_

 

He was hard in an instant. Achingly so.

 

The people seated around him noticed. Mutterings of interest, groans of delight, and a few sharp sexual comments. He heard them but didn’t comprehend them. Not at that moment. Not when his dominant opened his mouth to speak with that beautiful tongue that could be soft, angry, and _filthy_ all at once.

 

“You like him…” Hood said. “Don’t you.” Not a question.

 

He nodded hopelessly anyway. Suddenly not trusting his voice.

 

A chuckle. “You’ve been so good lately, little thing.” Leant forward. Whispered. “ _Take him_.”

 

“What?!” Grayson arched up to look over his shoulder at the other man. “But I thought you…”

 

Without a moment’s hesitation Hood tangled his fingers into Big Dick’s hair and pushed him down onto the ground winning a whine of pain and shiver in response. “You wanted him, Grayson. You got him.”

 

“Yes sir. Sorry sir.” Big Dick Grayson moaned and spread his legs further, balancing on bent knees.

 

Tim didn’t have the voice to say anything at that moment. He just whined in pure, uncontained, need and mounted the body he’d fallen in love with, worshiped from afar, and come for from the moment he’d seen it suck itself to orgasm. He’d never been inside anyone before and Dick opened for him like the gates of Buckingham Palace for the Queen. As if it was his God given right to be inside _this_ arse. To be over _this_ body. To be fucking _this_ man.

 

A reversed masturbatory fantasy that skyrocketed him higher, took him further, and drove his hips forward faster than it had any right to. Felt Dick’s hand squeeze his encouragingly, felt Hood stroke his back, and the sound of the watching patrons like muted music in the back of his mind.

 

Big Dick Grayson’s flesh was warm, insides freshly wet, and he was practised enough at this to open and take Tim smoothly on the first thrust. They moaned together, moved together, and embarrassingly soon Tim abandoned all pretences of performance and humped mindlessly into him. Consumed by everything Big Dick Grayson. The smell, the sight, the _feel_. God… God… God… _God!_

 

Hood’s fingers locked around the back of his neck. “Hold on, little thing.”

 

He whined but somehow stilled his spasming hips as the dominant stepped to stand over Dick, straining groin right in front of Tim’s face, and open the front of his pants. Oh… oh. He’d never actually seen The Red Hood’s cock before despite being the weapon used to take his virginity. It was thick, brutally straight, and touched with a throbbing vein.

 

In warning. “You know what I want, dragon boy.”

 

Tim took him into his mouth without any more prompting, sucked greedily on the shaft, and almost choked. Red Hood took hold of his hair before he could retreat and held him. Hard

 

“You’ve never done this before have you?”

 

He shook his head, eyes suddenly wet with tears at the tug in his hair and the unfulfilled cough itched at the back of his throat.

 

A low chuckle. “Seems I left a little bit of your virginity left over. How careless.” The hand loosened in his hair.

 

Tim didn’t move. Wasn’t sure what he was meant to do with the cock in his mouth.

 

“Do you need my help, little thing?”

 

A pause and then a nod.

 

Hood smiled darkly, held the back of his head, and began to guide him so the head of the cock went into his cheek. After a while Tim fell into the beat of the movement and began to tongue the underside of the organ. That earn a growl of approval. Thrilled to an unnatural degree at pleasing the dominant, he resumed thrusting into Dick in time and moaned around the weight and girth of the cock in his mouth.

 

When Tim came it was with a crippling wave of weakness; as if everything his body had was being pulled out in a raw note of pleasure and pumped into the man bucking back onto his cock.

 

“Good boy,” Hood told him and pushed him off both his cock the other man. “Go play.”

 

It was a curt dismissal but Tim didn’t let that show on his face as he slunk bonelessly across the floor to nuzzle, flirt, and fall into the laps of his regulars. There were no tips on the top floor; no encouragement for the employees to break character. But he knew he would be getting a check more than enough to offset the loss.

 

Some place of his brain was aware that Big Dick Grayson was now riding The Red Hood seated between two clients but he didn’t turn to him, didn’t acknowledge that. Instead he bathed in the attention he received from the crowd and shamelessly but submissively exhibited himself and his needs.

 

“Mm… my master says I’m not allowed to sit on anyone else…” he purred pitiably at a man who encouraged him into his lap. “But he doesn’t give me enough attention… I know you would, sir. I know…”

 

Another person. “Oh you’re tall…” He grinned crookedly and pawed playfully at his leg. “I like tall…”

 

The British bride. “Am I still your favourite?” Tim asked. He pouted and wriggled his arse as if to tempt her towards the right answer.

 

Her cheeks were bright red as she smiled. “Always, Tammy. Always.” A hand through his hair. “I’m so happy you’ve got a master you obey to show you off. Oh, and I’m so happy you’re still as sexy as before.” A layered look. “ _Sexier_. Begging and getting. I was afraid you’d just turn into a masked gimp for a while there.”

 

He grinned and flicked his tongue across his lips. “Do you think I’m too pretty for a mask, mistress?” He suggested lustily and won a murmur of delighted laughter.

 

Soon he was kneeling over Ra’s lap, moving in the way he knew the way the man liked it; one more lap dance. For the first time man the man did touch him but only his tattoo; two fingers sliding up and down the coiled shape of the dragon’s tail, flanks, and neck. “You’re an even better whore than you were a stripper, little dragon,” the man told him; eyes shining on the shape of his body. “Just a pity you’re not _my_ whore.”

 

The night didn’t change much after that. He kept flirting, revelled in the chance to dance for a ring of people, and was roughly pulled back to sit at Hood’s feet when the man decided he’d flaunted himself enough. Wayne didn’t say anything when the last of the patrons left but Dick invited him to sleep on the sofa in the third floor, Jason gave him a beer he puckered his lips at the taste of, and he was formally introduced to Selina Kyle – Catwoman – who looked at him mournfully and sighed; “oh cruel world; why are all the best boy submissives gay?”

 

It wasn’t so bad not getting confirmation or denial from the boss. Not at first.

 

The forty eight hours afterwards were torture.

 

Had he proven himself to Bruce? Had he sold his character? Maintained his patronage? Made Wayne money? Would he be working on the top floor, putting on shows on the second, or put back to dancing at the bottom?

 

They were questions that he never formally got the answer to.

 

On Friday he was called to fill in on a porno with Dick Grayson. It was a surreal experience. He was Tim, pretending to be Timmy Drake, pretending to be a character in a script. A character that, worryingly, was due to get penetrated by Big Dick’s namesake. Despite the man’s size he was aware this was only Tim’s second time and took things slow with a lot of lube. It didn’t hurt as much as he was expecting and the cameras could be turned off while he was given time to adjust.

 

“So,” Grayson said, on top of him, _inside him_ , and waiting for the makeup department to fix his hair and the director to tell them to start again. “How about that weather?”

 

The absurdity of the comment left them both giggling, still tangled together, for long enough to hold off the next take for another five minutes. The director glared at them through the entire fit of shared laughter which somehow made the whole thing even funnier. It wasn’t the type of sex he imagined with Big Dick Grayson – not especially kinky but fun despite it – nor was the man who he thought he would be; Dick, persona aside, wasn’t a dedicated kinkster in real life but loved fucking in all aspects and loved the wow factor kink added to the mix when having sex professionally. In the weeks that followed they did a lot of behind the camera work, Dick taught him how to breathe fire for an ad – you _have_ to you’re our _dragon_ – and they even started hanging out as friends outside the manor. He and Jason were giving a weekly show on the second floor and, after a couple of months, performed in the dungeon again where the man proved as creatively brutal as he had been the first time.

 

It wasn’t until the third time he was down there, this time with Dick, did he realise he had passed Bruce’s test. For months he had treated every show like his last; convinced he was just filling the gaps and would be put back downstairs once Wayne didn’t need him anymore. But, kneeling by Big Dick Grayson, one of the biggest stars of the manor; he realised he had his own place at the top of the house. He’d proven to Bruce he could keep clients. He’d sold his character. _He’d done it._

 

That thought was a surge of ecstasy greater than any orgasm.

 

A year on the day after he first got the job at Wayne Manor working the pole he was given a room on the third floor. It was simple but large, overlooked the stables, and came with its own deluxe bathroom. Jason had been living on the third floor for a couple of months already having moved in with Dick, he became friends with Stephanie – Miss Brown – during her visits, and had unprofessional sex for the first time with a red faced square jawed boy named Conner from Metropolis who worked with the camera crews as a grip and was the only person ever to go to Film School with the goal of becoming a pornographer.

 

To this Tim showed Conner his Honours in Architecture but told him he had more fun this way.

 

“What a world we’ve created…” Dick said happily when he heard that and shook his head. “What a kinky wonderful world.”

 

Tim couldn’t help but agree as he logged onto Wayne Manor: BDSM Playhouse to check the comments on his latest video already listed on Timmy Drake’s page under a picture of him, bound and beautiful, suspended above a bed of candles.

 

_What a world._


End file.
